Hardly poetry. I like mine bland,
burned, & free from eccentricities.
Just a slab of charred meat
on toughened bun. What I’m used to:
protest verse for my intestines,
thin mat on a steel slab.
He goes burger also,
adding leafy accoutrements on top.
I like the thought of a world in which our gods
grovel with us in the street,
where known & contending
bump their heads on similar doors,
stumble over same chairs,
eat the simple morsels.
A third poet joins us, playing superego
to our friendly duel of ids.
She orders liver
which doesn’t belong in sonnets.
I wouldn’t wish that on Ashbery,
not even on Billy Collins
who I imagine chooses steak &
spends an hour meditating
on merits of his after-dinner mint.
for Marc Harshman