They can all be dismissed as first-world problems
Problems with the kids
Digestive complaints
One crappy dishwasher after another
And yes some people live in the first world
And though they may vaguely sense
The ordeals endured by the rest of the world
They do not as that Woody Allen character did
Cover the living room wall with the image
Of a man blowing another’s brains out in Saigon
They must cope
They must admit
That contrary to explanations current in childhood
Unavoidable problems have arisen

I have a problem with abstraction
It’s always been there
But it seems to have worsened
With this recent turn to a confessional mode
With its degrading dependency on the first person
I just don’t think about tangible things
I’ve seen plenty of objects in my life
This street light
This mailbox
The horrible intrusive privet from next door
Yes I live in the suburbs
I’ve always lived in the suburbs
I don’t know how to live anywhere else
My little horse gives his harness bells a shake
I’m so sure
I never see wheelbarrows or chickens
I took a pony ride at the church bazaar once
Parochial school a privilege

Or an image of some delicate plant
Found only in some particular locale
So acutely observed
So cunningly selected to serve
As objective correlative
To some intense yet impersonal
Complex of emotions
No that’s not me
Instead I hand it to the critics
Though in fact my secret’s safe on these pages
Though every poet craves fame
The old pagan afterlife
And I still wince to call myself poet
And I imitate the great masters
Though just how isn’t obvious
Or lapse into total
Tjnbui pmist effrenti gurdrif insay
Or simply state that emotions seem important
Even though I can’t even see
Much less explain why that should be the case
And I tell myself and others tell me
To avoid the harmful ones
And I don’t want to harm anybody
And there’s nothing to be afraid of
Nothing to be angry about
Nothing to feel the loss of
There’s nothing