My friends think they’ll read my poems
one day and I think that’s as likely as
a bear eating Boy Scout Troop 8-0-8,
they think my mental pursuits are like
having someone else move the furniture
from floor to floor., who can blame them?
They think I don’t know how to screw
a screw into a pine board or an adjective
into a noun and give me attributes
I’d rather not have. They think I’m listening 
to birds when I’m listening to poems
and when I write about making love,
to them it’s just another blue etcetera.

My friends think I’m a line short of a sonnet