Zimmerman and Poetry
He googles Zimmerman and poetry
when he feels low. The point? A poet is
a junkyard dog; the published poem, a bone.
Most readers give you twenty seconds. Then
you’d better give them something back, or else
you’ll end up teaching, never to atone.
He drinks an ale called Anger. Two-thirds gone.
What’s next? That cheap Shiraz that vibrates by
the stereo? He’ll workshop now. Alone.
Next time you want to die, remember just
how good you feel right now. This jagged verse
has snagged a drifting petal, scratched a stone.
So what’s a poem? A rhythm, and a tone.
So what’s this flesh we lug around? A loan.