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?