Most poets I know wouldn’t dare
to make poetry without music, makeup and hair.
What poet leaves the house
after saying unkind things to their spouse
and drives in tears without knowing
what time it is or where they are going?
This poet wishes to inform you
if Berlin is in the poem you won’t be fooled
with scenes from Munich. If I dine
with friends away from the rain along the Rhine,
it won’t be me, alone in the poem, in Hamburg. Nein.
I need to be honest with you. If I’m too kind
to leave the wife and kids for the most exciting woman
in the world, and it’s rained for two straight days, you’ll know.
Kindness both is love and kills love. Rain
can be depicted in many different ways,
but this is no excuse. Influenced by other poets
is the sorriest excuse of all.
I know my poetry.
Don’t give me that look.
You’ll know right away I mean business.
You’ll see every letter pertaining to my fall,
the medicine I was prescribed, how effective it was,
the story within the story: the duel, the battle, the ball,
the feelings I had at the time, or whether the sound engineer was in love.
Most poets I know would be able to follow
these directions. A poem is not a thing. You wouldn’t ever call it hollow.