The mind of a poet is essentially suspect
For it is full of the lies of its teachers.
The fresh mind of a scientist must reject
The naïve pontifications of preachers.
Poisoned are the many hands of soldiers
That they must shield them from loved ones.
False are the eyes of the unredeemed lonely,
They suffer fates of their own devising.
The executive has one weakness only:
When his employees are set to crying.
Twisted are the guts of a grocery bag-boy
When he’s had a hasty breakfast burrito.
Firefighters brave great conflagrations
In an effort to quench a terrible fire.
Poets’ hearts, unlike their minds, are pure
Because a soul cannot be easily corrupted.
Look! The police: their knees are aching
For they wish release from their station.
Oh! Warehouse worker! Your dusty jeans:
Belie a presence of mind unlike your superiors.
Forgivable deepness in food-truck food-stuffs
Owner! Own up to your superficiality!
Amateur: cry the names of your superiors!
Steinbeck! Eliot! Bradbury! and Vonnegut!
We label them here and judge them there
Where we think appropriate.
But little thought is ever wrought
On their emotional and spiritual debt.
September 7, 2016
