Why I Am Not A Poet ...

I'm culling books from my collection.

And I'm flipping through each volume to extract anything I might have stuck between the pages long ago.

So far, I've found boarding passes, gift enclosures from folks who have sent books, a business card from a guy I once fancied (he wore suspenders; at the time, I found that charming), a Xerox of a map of Connecticut (apparently I was plotting a vacation blitz to see Connecticut-dwelling friends), a photo of me and an ex, a belated birthday card that was included with a belated birthday gift of the book in which I found the card, a birthday lunch seating chart (yes, I think about who will sit where), and a poem.

Well, it's kind of a poem. Really, it's just 44 words of insipidness, 58 syllables of "What was I thinking?"

Shall I embarrass myself here? Oh, why not:


I ache behind the garden

madly dreaming of his

bare skin always sweet

Her black light smears

their essential language


Above him moon music will play on

As only our sky blue sea

lives as a watery forest

and we are near each other


Right?

It's surely no Ode to Vermin. Now that's a triumph of language!