Litany Rewrite for the AP Crew

You?

Oh you.

You, I’m discovering, are the wires in the powerline--
The crackling and the spurts and the fizz.
You are the shadows on the ocean floor
And the little hidden one in the ferns.
You are the jacket with the rip in the seam
And the laugh (forced? real?) when it’s pointed out to your friends.

You’re not, however, the starch in the pretzel

The sailor on top of the mast
Nor the unabashed flail of a drunkard.
I hope you are not the tusks of the walrus—
Dear God, I hope you are not the tusks of the walrus.

It’s possible that you are the child on the playground
The one yelling “Lava Monster” who’s imitating the big kids--
Maybe even the one hogging all the toys in the sandbox
But you are not even close
To being the grub asleep in the Baby Bjorn.

And a quick personal inventory will reveal
that you are sometimes the roll of the eye,
Sometimes—let’s be honest— the lump in the throat.

It might interest you to know,
(Since we’re all talking about ourselves)
that I am hoping for you.

I am the pile of essays and the fervent feedback
I am the forgotten guitar and the neglected journal,
I am the sinner, and the striver, and the wife, and the weeping
and the morning prayer that asks for too much.

I am the lit-up fountain water, too seldom seen
And the sighing tall tower of great expectations.

But don't worry, I'm not the surge in the powerlines.
You are the crackle of the powerlines.
You will lightning be the fizz of the powerlines
not to mention the shadows on the ocean floor.