The Blank Page

This is not a poem about a pear tree.

Nor does this poem concern itself

with insect abdomens flexing sexually

toward blossoms aching to receive them.

This poem is content to ignore the pulsing

venom stored in the stingers of those bees,

as well as their furry black trousers coated

in pale-gold powder. If it were a comic poem,

it might encourage the reader to envision bees

wearing tiny shearling chaps and call them cowbees.

But this is not a comic poem. It has no feelings.

It has nothing to confess about its recent affair.

The salacious photos in its file will be burned.

It has gone dead inside, despite all the therapy,

and that is why it has turned to cold, clear gin.

This poem offers the congenial banter arising

before the actual discussion. It wants you to like it,

but not too much. Not like some people’s poems.

It is arguably a conflict-averse poem, and now

it is watching and waiting, hoping you noticed.

This poem would rather start rumors than work.

It has never owned a goat, nor any other livestock.

It is partial to cashmere sweaters and black coffee.

if it didn’t have such a bad habit of borrowing

your intuition to create its false impressions.