Diagnosis.
The
oddity of being seen by the poet,
like
an X-ray, you didn’t really feel.
They
have to interpret it. See it.
Not
that they’ll ever really tell you. Like doctors.
They
pretend as much as you to be normal;
it’s
impossible of course, like hiding a smile.
They
are the unforgiven, the exposed
only
safe among themselves. Like doctors.
That’s
why none of my friends is a poet.
Can
you imagine their eyes? All the time
waiting
for you to feed them. Like doctors.
Trained
to look, tell you what that pain was
in
the word love you dared remember.
The
word you let slip then murmured, oh, that?
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