In My Country

 

Many of the poets lie

Which is to say

They know poems

Cannot

Save you

Swans

Won’t

Save you

Blue skies, etc.

Yet in taverns

Classrooms

At conferences

Poof!

They become

Paracelsus

Sellers

Of medicine

“My poem will heal you!”

They cry—“Angels brush

My cheek,” they whisper,

“I know how

To make shit

Into gold.”

At grand occasions

They always look past you

To see if someone else

Can be convinced

& when they’ve had much to drink

They bitterly complain

No one reads poetry.

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