To a New Librarian Who Thinks I Don't Write Poetry
Poets come in many shapes
Tall, lanky girls dressed in drapes;
Moon-round ladies who rhyme,
Well - worn gents wearing chaps,
And sexy ladies who sit on laps
Writing sonnets, and love poems,
And the one poem everyone
Reads out at funerals.
There are white-haired poets
who farm;
Curly-haired poets who alarm
The ladies, and howl at the moon.
Poets who dance, and poets
who can't;
And poets who stand at the
podium and rant;
Poets who use no capital letters;
And poets who write around
the edges of the page.
I knew a poet once who wrote
Between the lines on his palm
Though today he'd probably
write.
On a palm-pilot instead.
Why do you think I don't write
poetry?
Am I the wrong shape, the wrong age,
The wrong size, the wrong gender,
Or have you just not gotten
down to the Ys yet?
