“This is not poetry!”
my son shouts
the darkness of his eyes
swimming in outrage
Because I can’t just arrange
words on the page
to make pretty shapes
the words have to
mean something
or rhyme (rhyme can stand in
for meaning) poetry has to
be profound
More meaningful than
the long clean lines of arm
and leg, his straight nose,
his shoulders
His passion is not the worth
lines put to paper, he says
because, he says
his feelings do not signify
But I
in my half-senile old age
think poetry is just love
and love is all he is