I read your poem and said aloud,
"That's nice, man."
But not to you or the empty house in which I stewed.
Nor was I cajoling some great judge of poetry,
the one we sometimes think hovers above us,
his black robe's shadow more fearsome than all
but the laser-beams that are his eyes.
Your last lines surprised me, and surprised
I heard suddenly and strange my own words in my ears.
"That's nice, man." Or: you got me,
and, what's more, if that's my voice,
then who the hell have I been all day, and all yesterday, and all far too long?