Walt Whitman
Brandon Tankersley

Walt Whitman
why do I hurt inside
when I read one of your lines?
my finger turns on your weathered and bearded face
and I say –would you approve my friendship
if we had met on some appointed days?
I fear that I’m not enough of a homosexual for you
though you (and I) may hate that name
and I’ve never once worked a man sized job–
shoveling coal– till the close of day
I’ve never slept in a hard bed.
(do I here mimic a worthier companion?
and why should not two voices be allowed to reach you?)
Mr. Whitman, would our science have ruined you?
and what song will you sing today to the men
who captain the ship inherited from you?
and do you embrace souls who have forgotten they must cry?
who have traded earthly consecration
for a slight hum
coming from a box which puppets their lives?
if you’ll allow another question
a little shaming–and shameful that I’d be so shamed–
were you ever really so alone
(I thought I’d heard it in your voice)
and did you come to accept
that personne would reach out and take the hand
you offer freely
and did you sit night after night in your chair replacing it with your own?
and here, sir, I wonder if we shall ever meet
though you will always nourish the best parts of me
I wander too, but sadly cannot keep your pace
and if I had somehow hitched onto your eloping fop
I think I might have turned some unlucky morning
and cut your sexy hair while you sleep.