Seen only by One Person

my fears

in putting out my poetry

given

a so called spectral disorder

and cognitive dysfunction

i'm said to be cursed with

a certain deficit of attention

labelled as a debt i can never repay

overwhelmed by the senses

on a spectrum of unrelatability

and inaccessibility taken as slovenly or unreliable

like when i talk to people

there he goes on again about this or about that, about some dead queen

or else the particulars of prosody in Latin verse

or ancient cookery or some damn thing

always as a child

being reprimanded for not paying

attention

for daydreaming

for crawling under my desk after my fallen

pencil

but i paid a very close attention

though no one knew to what

maybe it is true that i have

nothing to offer

or

perhaps it's just because

what i write

just isn't any good

but I have a suspicion

that that is not

exactly the case

however now i suppose i know that

i can never compete with normalcy

and all those relatable feelings

and easy to follow clarity

that will always make normalcy

superior to me

the debt of attention I cannot repay

renders my cherished art a thing only of isolation

"BAREFOOT CELLARS: Fruit Forward and Accessible":

that will never be my vintage

despite my barely vanquished poverty

through a dead end job lifting boxes

my unimpressive pedigree and

socio-economic standing

what right do i

have to write anything

and to have it seen

this is my DEFICIT

and so that is why

until now

it has been kept in a drawer

seen only by one person

sometimes it seems

that all that's required

to be seen or heard

is to mutilate my long-honed style

try to be normal

accessible approachable readable

without the fatal disjunct

but who am I kidding

i'll never do that

so

these are my fears

in putting out my poetry--

that they will just collect dust

anywhere i put them

and yet

[even locked in a drawer]

when Seen by One Person

that One Dear Person

it kinda makes

it all

worth it