THE HUMBLE POET

To be a poet.

Even the word,

“Poet.”

Grimy and self-important as it rolls off the tongue.

It’s the worst word to bring up in conversation and even worse to self-characterize as.

We go around the room in a circle answering one by one, name something you made recently.

I was near the midpoint, I had some time to think.

Others describe the garage cabinets, engagement plaques, and sentimental crochet for sick friends. I could say I like to bake, or do crafts, or tell the story of that one time I built a lopsided plant stand for my sister. 

I could. But no. 

I’m a poet.

I must “humbly” mention that I don't merely make, I create. Create things that are high above all their heads. I face birth and death and betrayal all in a day's work.

I could characterize myself as deep and brooding and “more than meets the eye” with the slip of that single word.

I nod and smile as a couple shares a story about how they met in college. I can safely tune this part out. 

Poet.

In stating this, I admit defeat. There’s nothing humble about it. Humble is the cake I made last week, even if it was earl grey flavored and made from a vintage-passing tin.

Humble are the baby blankets I embroider for my friends when yet another announces they’re pregnant and the only story I have to follow up with is that I broke up with yet another in a long line of short-lived romances. 

It’s closer to my turn. 

I feel warm, the feeling I get when I have too much time to think, or make too much eye contact.

I have the chance to make a simple, sweet impression. Reveal to them my warmth and homemaking skills. Maybe one of them has a brother, or a son, or a tolerably handsome dentist to set me up with. But my ego itches, the need to impress practically spilling from my mouth.

It’s my turn.

When it all comes down to it, when the eyes are watching and I need something to offer, I can’t help myself. 

I tell them I’m a poet.

Their response, “I thought you worked in marketing?”