For years I thought at least
the poet took the time
to call me back. Must be
 
a good, yes, good man.
Calls his constituents.
“Excuse me,” I said.
 
I had to clear my throat.
“In one of your poems,
the speaker is an amputee
 
who has to pay for sex.
As an amputee myself,
I was wondering if you–”
 
He interrupted me to
berate me and the monologue
goes on and on
 
and I still hear it today.
The problem with his poem
is the problem with poetry.
 
I want your pain.
I’m taking it.