You solipsistic sissies, male and female,
poets about the Me, Myself, and I,
should send yourselves, and then collect, your E-mail,
and not pretend your jots are poetry.
“Poets are actors, and their books are theatres,”
wrote Wallace Stevens. Roethke spoke in tongues.
How many voices spoke through William Shakespeare’s?
Let script be ready for the actor’s lungs!
I’m tired of reading about my own grandfather,
how Me, Myself, and I are sad and blue;
I’m bored to death by this self-conscious bother.
Please, Me, Myself, and I, use words like You,
and try to think of somebody like Me.
Come, suffer in another, ways-to-be.