Write One for Me

When you are done using all
the words in your dizionario oscuro
to cobble poems that might be
at home in The New Yorker, Atlantic,
other high-falutin’ magazines,
please write one for me.

I love The New Yorker;
have subscribed for years;
but read it–as they say about Playboy–
for the articles and reviews,
which tend to make sense,
teach me something,
give me something 
to look forward to.

When I scratch my head
and write WTF?? in the margin
after reading your poems,
my inner aesthete suspects
that the items in question
were written for show, not for go.


It is, sorry to say, not my concern
if you are bucking for tenure,
trying to generate interest
in your forthcoming book,
or still grieving over
the baseball glove that you
left out in the rain
when you were ten.

If you want me to read,
understand, appreciate,
come back for more,
tell me about the rain,
or the team you rooted for
when you were a kid
and leave that other stuff out.

In the rain.

Your glove may appreciate the company.

C. T. Holte

C. T. Holte grew up without color TV; played along creeks and in cornfields; went to lots of school; and has had gigs as teacher, editor, and less wordy things.  He recently migrated to New Mexico; and got a cool electric chainsaw for Christmas.  His poetry has been published in Words, Touch, California Quarterly, Months to Years, Pensive, The Daily Drunk, and elsewhere, and has been hung from trees to celebrate the Rio Grande Bosque.