Someone Called Me the Other Day

Someone called me the other day,

Concerned about my psyche.

They don’t like the way

I don’t capitalize my name

At the end of my little poems.

Their concern was one of mutual exclusion:

That either I had delusions of an e e cummings,

And fancied myself to be that important,

Or that I didn’t esteem myself quite enough,

In a high and more vigorous way.

Well, I hated to tell them that

In my sum game zero,

Grander yet, I would characterize—

Like maybe an Ovid writing my ‘little book,”

And then again, less than nothing,

And all the gamut in between.

Such is the life of a poet, I guess—

Misunderstood on all accounts,

Subjecting ourselves to the scrutiny of all

And the criticisms of many.

And yet, what is in a name?

It’s not even my real name anyway.

-jenn long