thirteen.

David Lehman wrote a poem
every day, lining them up
like tin soldiers, ranks of metaphor
and cordite echoes of his
imagist forefathers.
He wrote poems, and gave them dates,

critics lauded them for sincerity,
and all I can think of is my
shoes, red converse with broken laces
(the mud rubbed into the heels and ballpoint
political cartoons smearing on the
toes). I try to say poetry

and instead I get this. I string together
metaphoric platoons but
they're all just another way to admit
that my shirt itches where it crosses my spine
and the rain has gone done the back
of my collar and my bus is late.