I need the poet near, to explain his poetry to me,
And if he can’t explain it—then to hell with his poetry.
Poet, you’re wanted in Poughkeepsie—
A reader there is trying to understand your poem—though she is a little tipsy.
Poet, get up from your nap—you’re needed in Marigot Bay,
There’s a girl with a Pina Colada who has no idea what you’re trying to say.
There’s a poem in a bottle, floating on the sea.
The content is trivial and mawkish. Now what else do you want from me?
I told you to keep still in the classroom—just listen!
So when you graduate next year,
You’ll see your silence was a blessing.
Actually the blessing will be obsolete—and then the blessing will be clear.
As for your poem, let me tell you frankly, in private, after we travel
A little ways off into the moors, should our relationship unravel.
The forest opines with its judgement among its many moods,
And you’ll go there and breathe those wavering attitudes.
Here’s the forest signature lingering at the eastern base of this tree.
I know you like to write—but hey you should have just told me.
I can see the birds as well as you.
But the forest is deep, and it’s owned by a crackpot, too.
And you’ll pardon me if we avoid the bay?
I can’t stand to see that bottle—that bottle with the poem in it, slowly floating this way.