I Wonder What It’s Like to Be an Old Poet Who’s Also Beloved and Well-Known

Do you reach a stage
With a microphone,
1950s style,
Bigger than your hands
Clutching it, and sing?

Do you reach a stage
Where you just can’t read
Another damn poem
Not your own? Your own?
Only a blank page?

Do you reach a stage
Where it’s obvious
This bullshit pattern
Is established now
And will just repeat?

Do you reach a stage
That has a number
Meant to indicate
Degrees of danger?
What’re you? Four? Five?

Do you reach a stage
That’s you? You’re the stage
And the carpenter
Who built it, and now
It’s gotta come down?