H.L. Mencken once said, “A poet more than thirty years old is simply an overgrown child.”

I’m certainly over thirty years old, but I’m no poet. Though, occasionally I’ll jot something down.

I wrote this one several years ago and it’s still my favorite:

Stepping out on the threshold
The jostling of bodies
The whiff of cigarette smoke
The constant negotiations of con artists and whores
Beverly loves the night life

Wandering aimlessly, hardly caring about the destination
Catching a reflection in the Victrola store window
Cheap, sensible shoes
Pleated skirt
Eggshell blouse, a touch of rouge

She pretends to be thrown up against dark buildings
Hair mussed up, blouse ruffled
She speaks coyly to the man next to her
Brushes his hand off her shoulder
Walks away clicking her heels

Flapper girls dancing the Lindy
Gold coins a jinglin’
Pushing and pulling

In her bedroom she lies supine, almost satisfied
She quietly invites him to leave
Sighing, she falls into slumber, a vacant look crosses her face
Beverly loves the night life

Meh, it’s not Wadsworth, but it will do.

One of the most oft’ imitated poems is William Carlos Williams’, “This is Just to Say”:

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Go to Google and type in “This is Just to Say Parody”, and you’ll see what I mean about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.

I guess I’ll add to the corpus:

This is Just to Say (for William Carlos Williams)

I tried to listen
to the poem
you wrote
just for me

and really,
your intonation
was beautifully
melodic

Forgive me
it’s the ADD
look!
there’s a squirrel!

Eat your heart out, Charles Bukowski!