The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are
only the second poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally
                                        so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can’t bang around
Here all day.”

                   “Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt” the Sun said
petulantly. “Most people are up
already waiting to see if I’m going
to put in an appearance.”
                                              I tried
to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”
“That’s better” he said “I didn’t
know you’d come out. You may be
wondering why I’ve come so close?”
“Yes” I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me
anyway.

               “Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you’re okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some
say you’re crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think you’re a boring
reactionary. Not me.

                                  Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You’ll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot