So I'm reading Roethke and I'm wondering,
how did he do it? How did he turn weeding
a garden into a grieving, death celebration?
And I'm thinking that I'll never be able
to do that, at least not with nature,
you drag in, with that familiar scowl on your face.
You've just read a poem that I wrote
and you want to know why it doesn't rhyme.
You say it's definitely not poetry.
A dreamer, you say. Not well read, you say.
It's all bullshit anyway and how much does it pay?
Keep trying, you say, try reading James Michener,
and did you know that Jimmy Buffet writes poetry, too?
You're waiting for an answer.
I don't give one away.
You turn, dragging your withered, right leg behind you,
and I know that you will pause,
just for dramatic effect,
before you slam the door.
This post is my first contribution to One Shot Wednesday, a weekly communal writing event. And a confession: it's an older poem but I'm testing the waters. I'm slowly warming back up to my poetry writing and looking for some critical feedback.