I’ve listened to too much Midwest emo and now I can’t remember how to write poems

because I just want to scream them until I’m hoarse,

to admit my narcissism behind the twinkling guitar riff

and yell my apologies instead of typing

and deleting, admit my ugly want as the drummer

sweats because it’s supposed

to hurt and the crowd hear what they want to hear;

instead I’m staring at want’s damp shoes

on the dark path back from college, refusing

to look him in the eye, it could have been a confrontation but there’s

a sickly glow from the windows of the house on the corner, madly

yellowed and drastic; there’s a word

for the desire to look in the windows of other peoples’ homes,

but I don’t remember or care what it is.  I never could

meet anyone’s eye.