Glorified Foolishness Pome

 Poetry is glorified foolishness,

Someone said. But English classes

He found were the path of least—

A way out into the capricious world where

Later he would find himself teaching

Which was a fancy name for the process

Of occupying a group’s time—he taught

Poetry as if it were potatoes dug

From a field of rocks and red dirt clods,

Something to be laid on newspapers

Where the concrete basement floor

Once supported a ping pong table.

 

Now the survey lit classes are gone

And you can slip all the way through

Without reading a single fucking poem,

Make your way into the capricious world

Unperturbed by its glorified foolishness.