THE POETRY SQUATTERS HAVE OVER STAYED THEIR WELCOME:
The words fall in patterns, rhymes constructs of pleasant poetry,
daffodils & slithy toves that hurt my head, roll around
like wrecking balls, smoothing out the wrinkles. It’s hard to
evict these cunning old masters, poets who claimed the high ground
for generations. They moved in like squatters, before we were born
claiming rights to my imagination & planted roots like weeds.
I’m going to ask nicely once then send in Bukowski.