Poetry for Pleasure
Sweeping ropes of hair out of his frown
and shunting Poems for Pleasure to limbo
in the northeast quadrant of his desk prison,
he re-snarled, “I hate poetry.”The pedagogue replied, “But poetry is
the reborn feeling of an early August dawn,
the liberty of snow geese veeing north in spring,
the purgation of October rain on summer-dusted window panes,
the conquest of Carl Eller putting Roman Gabriel down,
the youth of a 383 Fury wiping out a Camaro.
It’s life and love and hate and joy and everything you feel.
How can you say you hate it?”“It’s easy,” he sighs, retrieving Poems for Pleasure
and thumb-riffling its seldom-opened pages.
“I hate poetry.”