Lover of Anthologies

Her feet are bare. They hurt her.

You should read a poem, then go.

What, a hundred? You’re still here.

What, a thousand? You’re still here.

Ten thousand, and you’re still here.

Maybe you should go now. Go!

And you shout back, I’m going!

I’m going, and I’m going!

Going’s all I ever do,

And everything is going!

Calm down and sit in the sun.

Write some poetry instead

Of aching to know so much.

You should write a poem, then go.

Ten thousand, and you’re still here.