Whatever The Poem
A badly written poem: I’m sure it will not sell,
but still it must attempt to earn its stay.
It must stand at intersections, under streetlights,
among the stupid and insane.
And a better poem has bigger problems;
for surely one sees how its substance stoned a nun,
—after its form aborted her son
—after it gave her husband its word.
Reader be harsh: Hatred’s a finer art than praise:
It is the horse-spit in the priest’s ear.
It is the prostitute looking over her shoulder
at the poet working kitty-corner.
by Ryan Dowling