That one could read a poet’s collected works
in a single sitting.

That barely a handful are worth reading again.

That even poetry lovers manage but a few at a time,
and these are rare, exotic people.

That the life of a poet is too short and that of a dictator is too long.

That no poem has salvaged a love affair,
not even one by Neruda or Shakespeare.

That at times it hits you like the understanding that when Mommy said
Grandpa had passed away, it meant you would never see him again.

That mostly it is embarrassing.

That in baseball a 30% success rate makes you a multi-millionaire,
and in poetry, perfection might result in a few obscure prizes worth nothing.

That when the Muse says Write, the poet must ignore family, food, and bodily functions.

That of all art forms it is the hardest to translate
and because of this there is famine in the midst of plenty.