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,

prefers juicy,

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