Hot hot hot, you are hot, Sun,
Glaring all over my east window
Burning, beaming, yellowing
The room. Uninterested in me
Because I'm not Mayakovsky
Although I feel you insisting
I wake, that I produce right now
Or perish as my uncle used to say.
BraveMayakovsky, doomedMayakovsky,
He could sass you, and later O'Hara
(Before they turned forty, both gone)
Sassed you and sassedMayakovsky, too—
But when I try I know it's just another
Instance of me whistling in the dark,
Me not blazing, me not burning out.
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