Poets.

Poets fuck up.
They use language differently.
They get misunderstood.
Poets speak from understandings,
From Children's books.
From Richard Scarry, Huckleberry the cat,
About a town, the people, professions, identities,
All pictured in the windows of a big house,
Amidst the sunny functions of a day.
Even the poet gets his own little upstairs window,
And you feel he is special.

They are hopeful creatures, poets, of the children’s book sort,
living within their simple
Happy understandings.
Remembering a book mom and dad read to them
When they were small and infinitely fresh,
Happy beliefs they do not part with,
Having no clue how to.

This is why Scandinavian countries get along,
Their happy children’s stories
And those stories a bit grown up.
Vintage Danish erotica style.
Dickens' hopefulness, Marx's thoughts.
Irish songs and tales process the day’s events, along with wine.
The stories we tell our children offer how we all can get along,
A fundamental belief in what’s good.
Saturday Night Life. A beer ad from an old Life magazine.
We’d be nowhere, or in Hell,
in a Police State,
without them.

But the shrewd adults, let’s call them that,
take advantage of the poet, most every time.
So are you victimized,
Outsmarted, your generous words dismissed,
If not thrown back at you.
They have kids, you do not.
They get rich, you get poor,
Even when you provide them the most essential service there is.
Good for them. Thanks a lot.
They cannot listen to the tale.
No one told them as well, when they were kids.
Not their fault. What can you do.

Fuck ups are chain events, one thing after another.
Because of this, that. Because of that, this.
Because of another, oh, then this.
Like Jesus’s life. Also a children’s tale,
But for all of us.