In an early poem
wherein I tried to woo the entire populace
by claiming to be a poet
I suggested that “no poet will ever make it.”
In content, it was supposed to be a selling point.
I was much younger then.

I just read it aloud for the first time
in a long time
to an audience that would not shut up.
It took a lot of will power and force
to bring them under control
and I didn’t think anyone actually heard the the entire piece,
but at least the next poet got an attentive room.

After she was done with her recitation,
the next poet exited the stage
and bent to me to say, “By the way,
poets do make it.”

And she was right.
There are different standards of making it.
There’s personal satisfaction.
There’s groupies.
There’s successful performances.
There’s legacy.
There’s earning copies of the issue
that you’ve been published in.
You can make it after all,
when love is all around.

The standards of the youth I was
needn’t be the standards
of the craggy old man I’ve become.
Maybe I’ve made it.
Certainly she has.