Persona Poem: Inspired by John Steinbeck

I see the preacher and Mr. Joad

Winding down that old dirt road.

Huge have become these grapes of wrath,

how many years of poverty my characters can't do the math.

And so I'll have them head out west, 

 for me a journey of escape from my stress,

For them a last-ditch effort at comfort I guess.

 How will I get anything finished?

Am I a dead man walking

Or a breathing creature on the precipice of a successful writer?

Will I ever know if plot will seize attention like Lennie

Or sow disgust like Cathy Ames.

From California I twirl my bigote

With hands worn out and chapped.

I write like a machine,

I figure my work is unpolished and clean

But still this cantankerous machine writes.

Nothing else really matters.

And I am nearly finished,

Like a lion stalking its prey, I finally did this

What is left is a novel,

Spending all day with a pen is healthier than a brothel.