Too Many G-D Poets-Revised in late 2011, again.

Too many poets. Dreadful.
I am Peeved. Nettled.
 

Yet I too, am a guilty poet.

While I sit and wait for my soup to arrive,
I read a few pages of Simic, Collins, and the Seattle papers.
The noodles cook and drain.
Mrs. Green slices the smoked pork.

I fight to tune out the background signals, the laughter, static,
while I scribble arthritic sentences in my composition book.

The bowl of Pho came, hot and spilling over the side.
I watch a skinny teen with bad skin,
scribble in her binder,
and I wonder what she is saying.

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10-09
3-11