I completely cracked it yesterday.
Everyone I showed it to agreed.
The Professor of Creative Writing
covered his mouth and ran from the room.
It even made my skeptical wife swoon.
It wasn’t just the best poem I’d written.
It was the best poem ever written.
An Aurora Borealis in your heart.
A Niagara word-fall gushing in your head,
the wild moon: there! – at the bottom of your bed.
I folded it up, put it in a tin,
buried it deep behind the compost patch
near where we interred the family cat.
No poet wants to see poetry like that.
