The life lived a bit more than it used to be

My life was a useful thing altogether, amounting to
A couple of very nice birthday cards, three or four
Clearly-written exam papers and an interesting idea or two
A year. The poetry was marginalia.
What's to be worried over, if you insist,
Is the narrowing field of vision, the cramped, busy writing,
Too many words, too little feeling,
And too much space beside for poetry to fill up.
In that chasm between words and verge it simply drowns.