February 4: Useless Talents, My Masterpiece, Prayer for My Car

My car's Engine light came on this weekend.  I have an appointment at the dealership this Thursday to have it checked out.  Well, I should say had an appointment.  We can't afford a car repair this week, so we're going to reschedule it to next week.

I told my wife this evening, "You know sometimes I wish I had a useful talent."  Poetry is not useful.  It doesn't pay my bills.  It doesn't get me a full-time job.  It can't fix my broken car.  It can't even buy me a cup of coffee.

Charlotte puts her talents to work to save Wilbur's life, and, at the end of the book, she creates her magnum opus:

"I'll tell you in the morning," she said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the cows rattle their chains, when the rooster crows and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte has great talents.  She can build webs.   She's a good speller.  She rids the world of pesky insects.  And she sacrifices her life to save her best friend.  She's practically a saint.

I don't want to be a garage mechanic or a plumber or electrician.  My older brother inherited those gifts in my family.  I'm a poet.  Words are my gift.  I can write Letters to the Editor.  I can put together a mean curriculum vita.  If you need to compose a complaint to a rotten landlord, I'm your man.  That's about as useful as I get.  Poetry might be beautiful.  It might inspire.  Unfortunately, beauty and inspiration come pretty cheap in this world.

Dear Lord of Useless Talents,

I'm not going to ask for the wealth of J. K. Rowling tonight.  I'll leave the Nobel Prizes to Mo Yan and Alice Munro.  I'm not going to bitch about having to get up at 4 a.m. tomorrow.  My prayer tonight is for my car.   I can't afford a new transmission.  If my head gaskets (whatever they are) need repaired, I'm screwed.  I need a car problem that can be fixed with a sonnet or haiku.  A well-crafted metaphor.

That's what I'm asking for this evening.  I want to be useful.  Really, honest-to-God useful.

Your loving servant,

Saint Marty

Another useless talent.  She probably writes poetry, too.