Unthinking ain’t’s, I reckon’s, and yawning I’s
pepper a tongue not meant for an enterprise
so lofty: loading lines with sound, sense,
suited to voices with British accents.
A language not my own, but continually
deferred, always already the property
of faceless hegemon, unnamed they,
happy to teach, for a price, the right way.
To hell with it, a part of me says, just write,
long I’s be damned, I reckon, the words just might
fall into place, by God, the sun shines
down on me same as on them, their proud lines.
Yet all my damn-nears end up as prudish quites,
sincerity forsaken for Grecian heights,
soul sold for silver sounds of small sense,
damning my I’s in stressing the past tense.