Checking my back-trail

This look wasn’t supposed to be
Into my past.  I asked up
Several poets for company
But Eliot and Pound were
Unnecessarily hard to understand
And Lowell, Plath and Sexton
Too hard to hear for their weeping.

Did I back away back then
Because of my raising
Children and a difficult wife?
Or could I see that all those
Suicides added up to a road
Not taken, at least by me
On the authority of their example?

 
Who now cannot write a poem?
The world is peopled with poets
Writing their way out of prison
And mental institutions
Or into congress and who
Would want such a career
Or to be called professional?

Duffy perked his head
And sharply barked.  Ben
Looked up with interest
Toward the door – probably
Nothing I said to Susan,
Not what it was before and
Nothing worth dying for.