I write poetry
like a goose might
take a shit.
So, what of it?
As the smiling cook at
the boy’s home said
as he took off the pot’s lid,
“Anyone can have a kid.
It’s simple, like making soup –
but it’s the stirring
that counts.”
I write poetry
like a sick man
walking down the street
might spit.
So, what of it?
Nothing I can really do.
The real is up to you.
