You claim it typical of a poet
to yammer on in meter, emote
in merriment their manic behavior,
to cater to adulthood in tropes
erected of rainy days, pallid
oceans of irony and to marry
each trance to a page of crimes
committed and prices paid.
You accept the typical poet
means to armor their niece
(or other minors forced to read)
with ripened wisdom, warning aroma,
catering history to reprevent tragedy,
but prefer instead inertness, peace,
to keep the approaching storm,
even if inevitable, a mystery.
What should I say? I, typical poet,
apart from adolescent arenas,
pauper of restraint, myopic
image maker whose panicked
youth yearned not for mercy
nor erasures, nor niceties
towards my ineptitude, but advice
worthy of my empty attention.