For Walt Whitman
I should have rubbed my hands together
I should have made a spark
to light up my body electric
inside the gloomy dark.
A lamplight for my breed
not just for the margins
but the poets who have a need
who don't succeed,
and end up in the trash bins.
But the man in me toiled away
and the woman in me begged you stay
And I gave you all I hide in the attic
but all that I received was static.
I should have used my mouth and teeth and lips
But my jaw and jawnings hinged
and to my hips
with my wrist joints connected
to my palms
nothing there was resurrected
but I had
a thumb for each finger counted
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
could have been pointing to
then no one would forget ya
just justifying everything else
while instead I was singing a song for myself.
Tickle your toes. . .
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