I suppose I'd like to think I have a poetic bent or gene or on occasion find myself somewhat poetic. But it ain't so and it's not going to happen. But I do enjoy a good poem when I hear one yet I hear so few good ones. It is a fact there is nothing about me nor anything I do that would suggest anyone knowing me would dare say or suggest, "there goes a poet except for...," and here one might insert anything that points to the fact I am void of any talent in that direction. Truth being I have turned round and round many times, at one time or another, have looked in all directions, looking for something I could do that was satisfying, made me feel good and worth while. I used to be a wannabe in a number in many areas along life's journey, poetic, a good gift of gab, musically inclined, a writer of sorts so I could say what I wanted and could be understood for what I was trying to say. But I have out lived all that. I'll never be anyone important, never demonstrate any creative ability except to say, finally I am satisfied with who and what I have turned out to be. No longer a seeker. I am satisfied that I can read. I'm glad I can hear and enjoy music. I'm not musically inclined but I greatly enjoy playing the different harmonicas. I have been playing all morning on an Ehco harmonica, which is akin to the tremolo. I'm glad I have a great helpmate. Had things been different and had I seized opportunities when they came along and didn't, things might have turned out differently. I am what I am. Had I made better use of my thirty talents I might have been somebody. As it turned out, no need to judge me. One might feel poorly for the girl who married me, and more or less, got stuck with me, but now even she seems to share in the satisfaction of growing old together. Maybe I was the little train that couldn't but somehow, did. I'm happy to have those who would, be my friend, happy to be yours. So, what in the heck did I start out to say anyway? Cheers.