For Lisa
Down at the tennis courts I showed a friend
A morbid poem I wrote last month called “Flame,”
Wherein I cite my own spark’s ashy end—
Burnt out—no light or heat to drive life’s game.
This lady friend (both beautiful and smart)
Took umbrage at my self-demeaning whine.
“Your verses testify! Your verbal art
Provides the power, heat—the force divine
That lights the avenues of humankind,
That warms the passions and ferments the brew—
Intoxicating quaff—unties our binds.
Your hot bright heart’s not dead—it burns anew!”
Wow, I thought—could that possibly be true?
Is that what narcissistic poets do?
(5/23/13)