We’ve never met,
but it seems you live in every other poem I read:
smiling somewhere between cornfields
and chemistry class,
sobbing alongside 7-11s and station wagons,
dying in downtrodden tenements.
Why did you draw a mustache on the scarecrow?
Did you feel abandoned when the star quarterback
left you alone under the bleachers?
Wasn’t it you, middle-aged, who said,
“Radiation feels like sunburning your guts.”
you are a burning familiar page,
or maybe I just keep reading the same poem
over and over again,
searching for the right words to say
when we’re properly introduced.
(originally published here)