Reluctant Poet

By Joseph Hesch

Reading my silly scribblings?  Out loud?
To people?  Besides the ones in my head?
Oh, no.  That’s the reason
I didn’t want to write poetry
in the first place.
Too personal.  Too revealing of stuff
I shouldn’t share with strangers
or even people close to me.

Too “naked-from-the-waist-down,
sweating-like-three-whores-in-church,
redfaced, hyperbolized” honesty for me.

Too “hold-me-while-express-myself-
no-that’s-okay-
I’ll-take-the-wet-spot-
screw-you-bitch-
five-seven-five-syllable-sushi-
la-la-la-breath-la-la-
and who-could-possibly-care-anyway?”
for anybody.  


Especially late-night
rowdy revelling recorders and
receivers of repetitive readings
requiring lots and lots of listening
to lame alliterative lines.
If you show me yours, baby,
I’ll you show you mine.
So…um, where do I sign?
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