We all want something more than metaphor.
We all have a pretty good idea by sixteen
That youth is a clay pot and all old age
Is a wastebasket. This does not hurt much.
At 17, we lust to be print
On pages of novels by Miller
Read by the most wild girl in Kansas
Suffering acne and love knots and fear.
It begins to hurt. I have known people
Who dream of becoming ironing boards.
Poets in Boston dream of becoming
Twenty-six inning baseball games. I am
From Denver. Up in the sky. Simple. I
Would just die to talk to Susan one day.