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I’m not a poet,
And I don’t often read poetry,
And I don’t date men who call themselves poets,
Or read poetry to dimly lit bars,
Or sit by themselves on the grass in a park,
With a moleskin notebook on their lap,
While their eyes stare off in the distance,
Under the brim of a feathered fedora.
I don’t particularly like reading
Or writing poetry.
But every once in a while,
I’ll have something to say
That requires a certain rhythm
That even my abuse of the em dash
Can’t quite convey.
A kind of rambling meaninglessness
That doesn’t quite deserve a paragraph.
And message as arbitrary, as simplistic, and as likely untrue,
A dislike for poets,
That only seems appropriately expressed,
In a poem.
That was an excerpt from “horribly self-indulgent and judgmental things I’ve written (or thought about writing) while bored.”
The thought of hating poets occurred to me while looking over the green at a young man I assumed was a poet. The irony was that I also had a notebook in my own lap. It’s altogether possible he was having the same loatheful thoughts about me.
Also, how do you spell loatheful?