A poem is a mighty delicate thing
It’s made out of paper and hunger and ink
It can be about love or living and dying
Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it stinks
The words get away from you easy enough
It’s a pain in the ass to count all the stresses
The meter gets wonky, the rhyme chafes and chuffs
Metaphors fall apart like, uh, spiderweb dresses
Sometimes a poem is just work with no pay
You feel like a jerk and turn on the TV
Forestalling the headache until the next day
Two capsules of aspirin and a cup of green tea
Sitting on the couch, legs up on the ottoman
Whisper to yourself: what the hell rhymes with almond?