Idiot you

I am writing

the good book of us

at last,

long last,

longer than our bookends lasted

but just as good

*

The girls wore

all that they couldn’t

and I wore

all that I could

to try to get their attention

but I was the absence of blindness in light;

just another scene

scurrying among the

moving pictures and people

who go and come

to come and go

else where

but not with the girls

or their clothes

that fit better than skin

and seemed more revealing too

*

You,

you idiot,

keep the poems vague

because that keeps

all the people

appreciative that you,

you idiot,

didn’t forget them all

like all the people

that did forget them all,

people like you,

you idiot,

that refer only to you,

you idiot,

because you,

you idiot,

is not I, the reader,

who is brave and smart and has good taste

for they have trusted you,

you idiot,

and have gotten this far

and have not forgotten them all,

which is only you,

you idiot,

when it is only them

and the space between the concrete words

and the vagueness of being

found in your idiotic poetry

and in idiotic you