Telephone

A friend calls to say
There’s so much bad poetry
Written nowadays
But I’m tired
And a maple sapling
I’ve been trying
To keep alive
Has died and the loss
Is insurmountable—
I’ve no words for it—
And I listen to him name
Poet after poet who
He says stinks and yes
They probably do stink
But my little tree…

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto