everything I write with any foresight now is a poem
so I don’t feel so weird calling myself a poet anymore.
I feel no need to qualify my sarcasm with you, except I just have,
And I fear that you might forget my face
When I say,
"It was good to hear from you
Yesterday, glad you called,
was nice to talk."
I thought maybe you shouldn't read the rest
Til you finish your song
But then again, you are you,
So go ahead.
My poem beat your song.
But here, beyond the bold, which is the title,
Is the poem which can go without context,
Which I fear may have some meaning to
Someone besides you or me.
Before You Sing Your Song For Me.
On streets filled with more self-pity than this
I ask for my friends to say,
"You make me learn more of myself,
Through you, your friends, I hear me, understand me."
From their kitchens, my interruptions removed,
I respond to my closest friend, saying,
"I know, I brought you together without myself,
My lives combine without myself."
Part of my isolation was more than self-imposed
As I walk along said streets, arms spread alone,
"Follow me," I say, but no one is behind
They are though, there. "They are though, there," I say.
On streets filled with more self-pity than this one
I lay resolve to unite without myself
To be followed there without them behind
To give warm entrance to these cold longings.