Candidly:
When I imagine you reading this, I squirm
Discomfited, like a Frog
Self-pinned for dissection. Because you knowing how I feel
Feels that way: fate Worse than Death.
But I am no true Introvert, and reticent as I am
or Wish to be, my fingers curl
of their Own Volition around the pen
and I write. Even as the words form
my mind registers a Protest, lyrical Roadblock,
cautioning against the following:
Sap, Cliches, and Flowery Language. So I do my best
To avoid the offenses. Not such an effort: I do not think
I could be Those with you, despite
whimsic and ironical Effort, or Anonymity of Subject.
But, since I cannot say even these things to you
When we are sitting, silent, at a red light:
You always smell like Clean Laundry
And you know when to take me Seriously
far more often than I give you credit for.
You keep a low enough Profile to be overlooked,
and for some reason I did not intimidate you.
And even though
We've hardly gotten started, I suppose
I wanted to say thank you.
Because if it has been obscured by Cynicism (third Wheel
Which makes our Tricycle go) I think you're pretty amazing.
And for those Insignificants of yours, the ones you sneaked in and forgot
(which is like you, very) a long Time ago,
I noticed
Even though I tried hard not to.
Like a diamond in the sky how I wonder
