I Hate Myself and I Wanna Fly

. . . and behold it was good

Have to turn to work now,
have a warm meal ready when the wife returns,
worn from the giving, the spending of herself
to pay our rent, to find a little joy
in our routine. You will forgive, thus, Mr Nelson,
my brevity here in struggle with your poem:

Your poem, though it whispers sweetly
to my battered soul, it strains at the bonds of prose
that hold it to the ground when it would fly, fly,
nay soar on wings of truth burst free.

Thus bound, as I am, by time, I leave an insecure
and cautionary 75-mark on your noble poem, knowing
that yet may I see it differently
at some more measured time.