A kind of motel room

Subject, Verb, Object


I is not ego, not the sum
of your unique experiences,
just, democratically,
whoever’s talking,
a kind of motel room,
yours till the end –
that is, of the sentence.


The language, actually,
doesn’t think I’s important,
stressing, even in
grandiose utterances –
eg, I came
I saw I conquered –
the other syllables.

Oh, it’s a technical problem,
sure, the rhyme
on so-so-open
lie, cry, I
harder to stitch tight
than the ozone hole in the sky.

But worst is its plodding insistence –
I, I, I –
somebody huffing uphill,
face red as a stop sign,
scared by a doctor
or some He She It
surprised in the mirror.


James Richardson