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.”