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At My Peevish Attitude In 1981, Too
You failed me where and when I needed you;
nor suffered much more than a passing few
regrets. And so I rubbed your nose in it,
repeatedly and not some little bit.
My epic struggles (so they seemed to me)
meant no more to you than some comically
enunciated couplet on a stage
in some trite Restoration comedy.
That which I once considered beautiful
no longer thrills, but aggravates, my soul.
I can no longer write. The lines sound stale.
Now you consider all this as betrayal,
not of ourself but our offended Muse,
from whom I turn, saying, "Put on your shoes."
Thus, fully, I express my peevish rage.
