the critic

how generous she was
with her critique, soft on my
unbearable poetry.
the runaway train that it is.

but she said nice things.
encouraging things,
though much it was never her
cup of tea.

she preferred sonnets.
love poems, true love poems.

Emily Dickinson. or even frost
when he wasn't
dark and morbid.
Rilke and Rumi.

which is fine.
but she'd read them line
by line.

my raw boned stuff and smile.
saying cut here,
add this.

but she knew, she knew
deep inside
that i'd never change a bit.