Behind me a man at the Minneapolis airport
says: “I’ll see you at the Midwest Poultry Show”
except what I hear is not that but
“Midwest Poetry Show” which makes
slightly less sense but it’s too late,
I am already thinking of their sleepless night,
all the poets waking before dawn
and coaxing their balky poems into cages
lined with torn strips of newspaper
that are soon bunched into nests and absently
pecked at and read while they, the poems, make
derisive crowing comments to each other as the poets
drive their dented trailers carefully into the sunrise,
drinking bitter black coffee from the Hudson or Farmington
Kwik Trip until they arrive at a metal barn, bleary-eyed
and hopeful, now with combs and scissors and spray bottles
in hand they are fluffing out long metaphors and snipping
at tufts of too-flowery and winding prose, was that
too much? Well, it’s too late now, it’s all over
but the crying as bespectacled readers circle the cages
skimming unfairly, squeezing the stanzas and
splaying the words out at the ends, looking for
allusion, alliteration, allegory, imagery, rhymes
and near rhymes, iambic pentameter and free
verse while the poets stand silently near, cups of coffee
long gone cold under the giant ceiling fans, kicking stray
punctuation like curses along the concrete floor, already
reading the look in the readers’ eyes, thinking about next year,
when, surely, but surely,
they will place.
This is hilarious!!! And altogether great, like you.
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Thanks, Judy! I sort of cracked myself up with that one. Also: watch the documentary “Chicken People.” It’s great.
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