(with credit and apologies to Louise Gluck, current Poet Laureate of the United States)
Poets
Because in lined notebooks
there are hidden metaphors,
perky and fresh,
freefall, what you call
rhythm, I do not write
as you write, archaic
linguistic bard; you
are no more prolific
than I am, under
the I-74 bridge, the bridge guarding
adolescent drivers, wheels
that have brought me
to the silver edge, though
I grip and sweat,
clasping the leather wheel,
in all my anxiety knowing
nothing of the commuters nature
which is never to be free: poor metered poet,
either you never understand rhyme
or you never understand
what it means
to be free.