To a Friend Whose Work Is More Successful Than My Own

David Starkey


You've always accused me of napping
through my poems-as arrhythmic
somnambulist-even as I tapped
thye meter out against my knee. Pale,
with mimbus eyes and a voice
like a clavichord, you fit the advert
better than I. Falcon-instincts
for where and hwom to stike
have kept you in the middle
of every hunt. Meanwhile,
I'm the vole who's come up to sniff
fresh air at exactly the worng time.
I'm the church group leader sitting
around the campfire, strumming my guitar
while you ravish my girlfriend in the pine-
scented shadows. You've outflanked me
whenever we've been together,
found the counter weight to offset
any pressure I've applied in service
of my career. Another man would claim
you've ruined him, but I refuse-
no nobly, I admit, but out of pride-
to feast any longer on the banquet
of self-doubt you've set for me.
I send you this truce like a ransom
in a plain paper bag. Take it, please,
and vanish. The bills aren't marked,
I swear to God; the FBI isn't listening
on the extension, recording every word.
©CopyrightDavid Starkey