Why didn’t I feel
That things in my poetry were real?
Who indoctrinated me
Against my poetry?
A comfortable rhyme
Was rejected every time.
I had to go into the street
With shoes on my feet.
I had to do things I didn’t like.
Find streets. Speak into a mike.
Why couldn’t I find a domestic sphere
Where things were comfortable and near?
There was always an emergency
For which my poetry
Wasn’t prepared.
I wish I had dared
To be the kind of person that you
Could have followed. Or knew.