To go to next poem...   Forced Retirement By Anne Cahalan     I just think I’ve earned a little more, that I deserve a little better than this— after all I’ve seen and all I’ve done, the places and the mazes, I’ve wound my way through the tangles, the sudden drops and sticky swamps. I drew the first lines of the map, and it was hard work and dark work and night in uncharted territory is a scary place to be.   So don’t you turn on me, when I have suffered the snake bites and thorn scratches of your wild mind a million times. I’ve pulled you out of your own trees, slogged you out of your own quicksand, and left my own neat flower beds and hedgerows time and again to nearly lose myself in your morass.   And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat, because I’ve also seen your bright wildflowers, heard your iridescent songbirds, felt the startling serenity of quiet groves after the storms have passed.   And I think I deserve better than I’m getting, now that your huntsman’s paths are being paved and the jungle plowed under for agriculture.   I wasn’t a weekend Indiana Jones, you know, or a naturalist or a tourist; I meant for the long haul; I meant for your greater good. But now my machete is rusting and I haven’t seen a malarial mosquito in months and I’m happy for you, I really am.   I just think I deserve a little better than this.     © Copyright, Anne Cahalan   Click here to read Anne Cahalan’s Brief Bio.   To go to next poem...