I don’t see why you even bother, she wrote;
it’s not even poetry — addled prose
is all it is. always the same three themes:
every ‘poem’ a fractured rhapsody
of love and booze and its resulting blues,
heartache and heartbreak consequence of both . . .
might as well just scrap your blog and burn your
poetic license altogether now.
at the park by the river, thirty yards
down from a man playing frisbee with his son,
I stand before a wishing well, toss in
all my coins, and pause to compose my wish.
sign says the change goes to charity; I
smile into irony’s eyes and go home to blog.