Sometimes I feel
My relationship to American Poetry
Is a lot like the Halloween
I stood at the door of one of my aunts,
The sister of my mother, the one
Who lived in a small trimmed house
Married without children. There I was,
Not having much to do with her life,
Though she lived right across the street,
In the arc of her door
Paper bag open, without a mask.
I think I wanted recognition, the fame
Of being the son of her sister. But
She turned, and who was I,
To the next house, who am I now?