Scarriet

How much do I know about how much I loved?
Can this come from one opinion?
Can the answer come from only one?
In what particular tone or form?
More meaningful than the family dog passing my bed at night?
More sad than harbingers of an ever deeper and darker December?
More important than a friend who doesn't feel quite right
and places an ad, a message that I can see
which is full of pain and transcends poetry?
Can it be counted up? 
Like money saved, with interest? Can one
organize one's dreams
to some purpose so that one is responsible 
for winning---only possible by teams against teams?
How much is memory a factor?
How much of my memory can possibly
be revealed to me by someone else,
and even if I pressed you, you, for instance,
how much could I expect to get?
The scene of your confession would need light,
thoughtful music. Is it all set?
We can do this, can't we? 
I promise to listen. 
I'll even provide the poetry.
I promised this from the beginning, somehow.
Speak slowly. Is this a good tempo?
We're winging this, aren't we?
Okay I'm listening now. 

BONUS POEM: REVISED FROM DECEMBER 18, 2022

MOST POETS I KNOW

Most poets I know wouldn't dare

to make poetry without music, makeup and hair.

What poet leaves the house 

after saying unkind things to their spouse 

and drives in tears without knowing 

what time it is or where they are going?

This poet wishes to inform you

if Berlin is in the poem you won't be fooled

with scenes from Munich. If I dine

with friends away from the rain along the Rhine,

it won't be me, alone in the poem, in Hamburg. Nein. 

I need to be honest with you. If I'm too kind

to leave the wife and kids for the most exciting woman

in the world, and it's rained for two straight days, you'll know.

Kindness both is love and kills love. Rain

can be depicted in many different ways,

but this is no excuse. Influenced by other poets

is the sorriest excuse of all. 

I know my poetry.

Don't give me that look.

You'll know right away I mean business.

You'll see every letter pertaining to my fall,

the medicine I was prescribed, how effective it was,

the story within the story: the duel, the battle, the ball,

the feelings I had at the time, or whether the sound engineer was in love.

Most poets I know wouldn't be able to follow

these directions. A poem is a pill. Swallow.