They is always an (some) approximation(s)
When will the real one surface?
A nifty wee chap, nodding to this one,
pointing to that, our doughty pronoun
always lifts more than its own weight.
Akin to all words
(those others) (all of them) (every one),
each pronoun gestures to meaning but,
in this pronominal case, yon treasure-
hunting posture shuffles
to another sign, a passing
parcel wrapper in a line.
If he is Fred (or she is Jane),
then who is Fred? (And who is Jane?)
Really. Really?
Nowadays, some such signs flop somewhat
fluid, pouring rainbow more than pointing
black. Others purport to impose
dialect which, if not spoke proper,
will or shall incur affront. Grievous.
Absent passport and unwitting,
I, we and they find ourselves
in eel trap country.
In this there here, the treasure-hunt
is differently prized.
Choice.
Anything goes?
Everything works. So does either.
We’ll take ’em.
Either Adams (what/where)
Our very own poet laureate has or will soon reach terminal velocity and speed away from us in his natty red sports car into permanent retirement. It has been such a pleasure to have John Adams back on the bench these last few months, alas, now he must go. However, he has agreed to write for JANZ from time to time. His first gift is this poem on the confusion of pronouns.