Poetry for Pleasure

IT WAS A BEATEN old thing
worn in all the right ways
it smelled like history
and on the cover was a beach
“Poetry for Pleasure”
I picture a man in prison
forced to read an old copy of Howl
or Leaves of Grass
This would, of course,
be “Poetry for Torture”
“Poetry for Abuse”
“Poetry for Sadism”
Certainly not
“Poetry for Pleasure”
This is not a book for poets.
Picture him now, the poet,
He grabs his briefcase and generic brand company issued
writing notebook.
He sits in a tiny cubicle.
His boss screams for more stanzas,
more couplets.
At night he watches only reality TV
He wants nothing to do with poems
He longs for retirement in West Palm
reading repair manuals
and diner menus
Certainly not
“Poetry for Pleasure”

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