I For One
A friend from my childhood
says she is waiting for my next
novel. I wrote back that I don’t
think that’s going to happen,
not that I don’t enjoy writing
narrative. Novels, after all, grow
day-by-day like house plants and
provide a satisfaction much like
a gardener who wins the best
American Rose must feel.
But poems are different and
sneak in through the back door,
so no blue ribbons or loving cups
for them. Still, from the kitchen,
the poet can watch the swells
on the dance floor while wearing
his Che Guevara T-shirt and
munching on little crust less
sandwiches he filches from
shoulder-level trays as they
All in all,
the poet is a subversive, bad
mouthed jerk. When the kitchen
staff – who speak no English –
finally throw him out, he probably
pisses in the flowers while making
faces in the picture window.
I for one have no idea why I
am writing poetry save this
made thing here. Do you?
Gail Morgrage is the one who wondered about my next novel. She is one of five people who may have read my last book.
I dislike Che Guevara.
The poem as a “made thing” was poet Natasha Trethewey comment on the Newshour.