Fame

Every poem I say means “I’m worth being paid attention to.”
But I’m not really into poetry for the matchbox size fame there is,

nor am I into it to exact the last, loyal, honor-gleaming word
of respect swinging so low complete strangers want to owe it
a debt of service,

no, it would seem I’m into poetry
for the way it throws its iron hand in through the window,
and pulls me out of my little box of “I,”
kicking and screaming

before I have one more chance to hope myself on fire
for the sake of a higher, and ironically, more egotistical display of
“I’m worth being paid attention to.”
But then it would seem I’m not really into poetry either.

Right now I’m into wishing I could remember my father back.
Right now I’m into wishing I could keep my memory of him from going
out.