This poem resides in the wrinkles of a frown,
an actress makes, when she watches the old movies
in which she had no wrinkles.

This poem stinks of the irony, and the bigotry
of each minority, that we-
Ourselves, created.

This poem sounds like a blind man,
a-tip-tapping down the street, who says:
“I see my reputation precedes me.”

This poem feels like the selfishness of a suicide,
meant to change a father, and recycle potential-
just to escape.

This poem, this poem right here, is everything
you wished you thought and thought you wished,
but didn’t get, ’cause that he doesn’t exist.