and not a moment too soon,
let me tell you.
The trenchant and tremulous
words and images
that gave so freely of themselves
to be a part of this poem
had all begun
to give up hope,
locked away for so long,
festering, growing old
in the bottom of some dark dank drawer,
wedged in between
the poet’s 1986 federal tax return
and the paperwork that came
with that Gremlin he thought
was such a great idea.
It is a glorious thing
to at long last bask
in the sunshine of relevance,
to be read, heard,
debated, discussed.
Even to be hated and vilified
is to at least be regarded
as something worthy of opinion.
And, really, that’s all any poem asks.
Read me, hear me,
consider me,
give me my due.
Judge me if you must.
But please don’t
hide me away.
Let me out.
Let me breath.
Let me sing.