Here is another autobiographical poet of sorts.
The poem I'll read next is called "The Pack Rat."
And I knew for years that I'd have to write such a poem.
And what prevented me from writing
is that I just didn't know enough about the pack rat.
And so I did some reading about it and everything
that I found out about the pack rat
seemed to be appropriate for an autobiographical poem.
"The Pack Rat."
"Collector of lost beads, buttons, bird bones,
catalog maker with an eye for glitter,
litter lover, entrepreneur of waste, bits of snail shell,
chips of jugs, red thread, blue thread, tin foil, teeth.
Fair minded thief leaving in my pocket when I slept,
the pine cone and two nuts for the dime you stole.
Reasonable romancer journeying more than half a mile
to meet a mate.
Split eared lover with a bitten tail your mate mates rough.
You last all courtship long.
You stick around when the brood comes unlike most other rats.
Pay or prices, busy with no dreams but brain
enough to get along.
Moderate music maker with moderate powers
thumping the drum of frightened ground with both hind feet
or scraping dry leaves to the still woods chirp.
Simple screamer seized by the owls descent one scream and one
regret, just one fellow forbear survivor have I lost my way?"