Poetry is not speech, nor sermon,
poetry neither pleads, nor defends.
Poetry is provocation, an indication
that poets, on their endless walks and talks
With the immortals, stumble through portals
in faux brick walls, behind fake bookcases
To launch their flights of fancy, to ignite fires
of indignation at the plight of the poor
And forever abused, who want only a seat in
the midst of our glib and gilded donor classs,
To be allowed to slurp with the fat cats
and fill up on the milk of human kindness.
When poetry can’t talk, she’s liable to swear like
a drunken sailor in Times Sq. during Fleet Week.
Dave Read