For M.B.
A friend of mine who reads my poems
Thinks I should publish them in tomes.
She, to that end, presented me
A five pound book called Poetry
Market—2005. Tight lipped,
Grim, I refused her gracious gift,
Declared “I’m not a narcissist,
Will not plead to grace their pages.”
This reticence might be assuaged
If they pressed me to relent—“Please,
Show us your stuff”—and, I agree,
That will occur when hell grows cold.
Yet I am simply much too old
To duck ‘neath fake emotional
Defense erected to annul
Those harsh judgements of inspection—
Those brutal verdicts: Rejection!
Proud stand against narcissism?
Nah! I just can’t face derision.
Now truth’s laid bare, and it appalls:
Fragile self-love—and worst of all,
Spirit’s abyss—and coward’s fall.
(12/12/07)