Enough Of This

There’s no need
for me to be doing this
as others are already,
and there are a lot of them,
and they are proud of doing it,
and will tell you they do it,
and call themselves doers of it,
almost at the drop of a — beret?
baseball cap?  See how strong

the instinct is, the one that makes us
find the right word
and then crow about finding
the right words? There are a lot of us.
In fact I don’t know a soul
who has never written a poem.
There’s no need for me to be doing it

other than the selfish one within
that says I’m supposed to be doing this
and insists upon doing it even when
no one’s listening, reading, caring.
Even when every kid with a pen
has stopped listening, reading and caring;
even when every geezer is stubborn
and hung up on the Roberts,
Frost and Penn Warren;
even when I myself think this game
has lost its hustle and lustre —

still, though poetry has no need of me,
just like all these others
I am superficially convinced
of the general need for it,

even as
inside,
I am deeply afraid
of my need for it.