Knowing almost enough about so much imagining
caused the cellar beneath his blindness to be filled
with being nearly able to see for himself every last thing;
way off on Was, closer to Were, won’t budge on Will.
When you have learned truth the hard way, a last and mostly futile gain,
by then you’ve hardened in your ways, you are set and adamant.
Wearing that hat of correct, seersucker suit wrinkled and stained,
deciding if you could do it but won’t, or would do it but can’t.
This is scarcely talented work, parts are barely good, others trash
yet remains beyond the reach of you to criticize or debate,
graded instead by judges one can make no deals with except for cash,
where one person sees blemishes, another sees an endearing trait