What I Didn't Know

I didn't know when I wrote this poem,
that that there would be people like you around to read it.
I guess you call yourself a critic,
and feel grand and smug,
when, in your wisdom
and worldliness,
you tear down
a poetic style you never heard of.

My words to "Winter Morning"
confused you.
There wasn't rhyme,
The lines were irregular,
and the stanzas
weren't square and pretty.
Neither is my life,
but I wouldn't trade
the past that gives me
these words
of joy and pain
for anything.

Your name isn't Bill,
Mary, Larry or Lill.
In fact your parents,
with God's guidance
named you 'anonymous,'
which is Hebrew
for "best damn writer in the land."

I am going to wander off,
have a beer,
think about my past,
maybe pen a few lines
that you won't understand.
I may smile,
then again,
I may cry.

Anytime you are ready
to apologize send me a note,
or save the keystrokes,
since I told you
to fuck off.
I didn't know when I wrote this poem,
there would be people like you around to read it.