— a found poem
As Billy Collins sips his writer‘s tears and segues off
onto golden stories, I think there are no more directives,
or Brooks Brothers’ suits heralding the nine to five,
merely traffic signs in Italy that are mere suggestions
rather than instruction. Merge here. Turn there.
I think of those bleary Monday morning poems
half-scryed on fogged windows, sobbing cold tears,
after a hot shower, as he leans in for a closer shave.
Billy says the poet’s job is to stand at attention,
at the window and make an interesting report about sorrow.
I think of those silly break-up poems that held me back,
it was like taking drugs and reading all the words backwards—
from whose point of view, I don’t know, Leda’s, or the swan’s?
But Billy said sparrows, not sorrows, my ears tangled
in the small-feathered nuances of slant rhyme.
11/4/21; rev 11/18/21
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