"You've told us that before," they'd say to him;
"No kidding? When was that?" he would reply.
Each time he'd wince, embarrassed, vaguely chastised;
each time they'd shake their heads and softly sigh.
It never really caused too much discomfort,
and sort of made him feel like an Artiste;
he'd tell himself his mind was made for Large Things,
to write a Book, or Poem -- an Epigram, at least.
He kind of wandered dimly through life's clutter,
and met the warmest people, rich and poor;
his life became his artwork, his own treatise,
he died happy -- and happily obscure.