To Poets Who Would be Fastidious
By Thomas D. Jones

You clear away the tablecloth
And wipe away the crumbs,
And hide the mats for dishes
When guests announce they’ll come.

“I need to comb my hair”
You say and rush around the room,
Bite your nails and scratch your face
And hope nobody comes.

Perhaps tuxedo fits you well
Or shirt with tie and starched collar

Worn for simple folk who hardly know
A book, opera or show,
Or hardly care or dare to risk
A thing confusing, dark or ugly.

You turn and wait, turn and wait
And see yourself again:

Hair hanging down or cropped too short,
The lipstick not sensuous enough,
Your nails, the dirt behind the ears,
The crumbs on table, the salt that spilled.