I write poems, too!

Mark Borg photo of coffeeHe turns the napkin over as she refills his coffee
Whatcha writing?
A poem.
I write poems, too!
Who doesn’t?
She wants to be a poet
A know it all
Show it all
Off
Poet

She turns to the back of her little black book
Maybe you’d like to hear a few lines?
Of course he does not
Who would? Her mother, maybe
She begins to read
And /he smiles not pleasantly/
Thinking of her poor mother, maybe not

Her pathetic plea
For poetic empathy
—Please
Please notice me—
Falls on peripatetic ears
Listening past her drone
for the going going gone
sound of an idea
gone walkabout
He wants to shout
You moron
Blow your horn elsewhere
Rhyme your you with true
Suss out your strung out syllables
Dirigibles tossed here and there
Require more than hot air
To fly

Why are you not embarrassed by this rubbish
This nonsense
This gibberish?

And who is the greater fool
You who blows smoke up your own ass in order to bring forth these charred rectal probings you call poems
Or I who smile that pained smile as I watch my own idea fly
Oh why did I not flee alongside that transient thought of mine? Eternally gone; a butterfly does not return to its chrysalis.

Listening politely
to her chattering blithely
Writhing inside
with the cringing crashing tide
of her self congratulatory
Auditory awfulness
The back of the napkin remains regrettably blank
And she has no idea because
No one ever cleared her mind
Or set the table claiming to be a closet waitress.

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