The Hero of Our Story
Many young poets will pick up my book of poems
and, casting a cold eye, put the lightweight down.
They are looking for a harder and heavier stone
against which to flex, and grow, their strength.
They wear severe eyebrows and a steel monocle.
Only one, a nobody really, who presses back
while all the others surge forward like a wave,
will smuggle me out under a lamb jacket, glad
that the man in the book is as light as the book
in the man was heavy. Only one will get home.