You Come Too

Always the poem about “I” but never about “you”—

Whitman tried but he’s so hairy

And Miss Dickinson’s conversant tombs

Are too high priced.

There’s Robert Frost of course:

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring; 

I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away 

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I shan’t be gone long.—You come too. 

(I know a car salesman when I see one,

The “I’s” outnumber the “you”

Four to one—I hate

To let this aesthetic moment pass

But I’ve got inventory

And I’m in a bit of a hurry.)

Face it—poets want you

Like carnal teenagers.

The “you” when it arrives

Means pull down your pants

Or “you’ve ruined my life.”

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