I want to read a few poems from my book,
but I'm more interested in the new books.
I'm going to concentrate on that.
This is a poem called, "If I had it to do again."
It's one of the poems that I'm happiest
about in the first book because one always gets reservations
because you're in a constant state of change
as you continue writing.
I'm not completely happy with the very end of the poem,
but it's kind of a wish fulfillment poem.
It's a poem about the poet, or the personality, the charisma
that I would have liked to have been, but never became.
It's a persona poem.
The persona in the poem that I'm identifying with
is named Robert, and so that there
is no confusion over this point, there
is no reason why his name will appear.
I think I liked the name at the time I wrote the poem.
And it being a wish fulfillment poem,
I could get away with anything.
"If I had it to do again" Of the bloody palette who is it?
Robert, boy without fame.
Dishwasher.
Poet who cracks the cups and the restaurant steel
sink, who bites his tongue raw for spite.
The hours are piling into his head.
He's not thinking about it.
The editors are insulting each other outside his door.
So he's not there.
Meanwhile downtown, he's meeting one friend and another.
He carries his jacket like a sleeping negro
over his shoulder.
Hiya, hiya, says the first friend.
Hiya, says the other.
Shall I tell you about him?
He reads the poetry of friends without envy.
He's maybe not a fairy, but he can touch a man's arm
with no embarrassment.
His women are loved without promises,
but all the while, he's looking them in the eye
and he can let his penis sleep in a widow's hand.
He made a fool out of him.
He never knew it.
So here we are again, reading each other's verse
in the high, believable grass.
Robert, I say, if you gave it all up.
He agrees.
Robert, boy dishwasher, poet without fame.