I don’t like your poem
I don’t care about the robin’s eggs
or springtime thawing
and if I hear another poem about the weather I will
burn your village down.
I don’t respect your rhymes about the first ride in your first car
when you were sixteen
when you felt a breeze in your hair
or how it felt when Johnny kept you out too late
touching your thigh and face with grease stained hands
and you shuddered breathless against his chest wishing for just
moment alone with him
So, you held the door open for Billy Collins at a
restaurant once five years ago?
That’s not incredible.
He doesn’t like your poems either.