His poems aren’t polished, they say.
She starts each reading by reciting her resume.
It bores us all. Why does she keep coming around?
He’s old. His poetry doesn’t wear well on the page.
All her poems are about the same.
Who else in this city numbers every poet’s
flaws as if all people aren’t re-sewn, as if
we’re not precarious? We talk as if
our busted lips and redundancy
didn’t create this poetry.