I wish people would abandon the profession
of writing “poetry” that’s really just a confession.
I think you know the sort I mean:
most people get over it while still in their teens.
The places you touch yourself, and all that stuff,
if you’ve read only one, that’s more than enough.
How mean your parents were to you and your siblings,
that time you dropped acid, and other assorted driblings.
How the world conspires against you daily,
then laughs at your failures, and does it quite gaily.
Your first day at school, when you wet your pants,
that lousy Thanksgiving you had at your aunt’s.
You can hire folks to confess to, in exchange for legal tender:
There’s psychoanalysis, or your local bartender.
If you’re Catholic, it’s free, you go into the confessional,
say your prayers as you exit as part of a processional.
I know you didn’t ask, but the way that it oughta be
is keep these things to yourself, and out of the quarterlies.