Everyone I knew was proud of their race but didn’t think much of their father.
If their fiction was disgusting, this was much worse than if it was disturbing.
As far as their actual person, it was better to be disgusting.
The outcome of a game for them was mostly all that mattered:
the aesthetics generated and that their team won;
preparation and fairness made no impression on them;
the muse pre-wrote their poem, so difficulty was not an issue.
Once someone I hated wept and I carefully handed them a tissue.
Everyone I knew preferred free verse and this was due to a radical saying it didn’t matter.
How could one fault them for caring only about outcome?
They loved their team to an almost supernatural degree;
if only Plato’s good would elicit that sort of loyalty.
Everyone had a thing for comfort, excuses, hypocrisy, discretion, poetry;
it was only when it came to war, liberty.
Only for freedom would they give up poetry.
I’m too young to remember war; my feelings towards everyone I knew
had one caveat, one odd thing that didn’t fit: you.
You confused me. Was love disgusting or disturbing?
Everything I knew
was reversed in you.