The Craven

A Halloween poem for the nonprofit arts leaders among you. Laugh at your own peril.With apologies to the Poes.Once upon a desk so dusty, while I called a sixteenth trustee,
All about a new donation that would keep open our door—
While I wept and gave a holler, “Oh, why can’t we raise a dollar?”
And the tightness of my collar made me sweat profusely more.
So I wiped my brow with Kleenex, but I sweat profusely more,
Sweating bullets, nothing more.Was it August or November?