A POET'S BAD CREDIT RATING
I was out shopping with Mom yesterday at the Napa outlet mall. Mom and I bought enough clothes (I was catching up since my usual wardrobe is the hubby's former shirt and frayed blue jeans and Mom was buying for northern California weather) that I opted to sign up for a Liz Claiborne credit card since such would garner an extra ten percent off the whole tab.
They rejected my credit rating.
Why? No particular explanation -- but had to do, no doubt, with the profession "poet", status of "self-employed", and therefore the implications as regards (financial) worthiness.
I was miffed, until I turned the incident into a metaphor. If poetry is a way of life, why, too would I abide by an-Other judging Moi value?
That ten percent I didn't save on the wardrobe bill? Cheap. And beneath Moi.
And I look damn good in burgundy suede.