say I'm
a terrible poet

the wordsmith who came last
in a verse competition

who never quite mastered his own tongue
or learned how to manage the crowd with it

must be something that happened
when I slipped outside for a bungee jump

poetry changed its clover
or traded in its heart for a book on prosody

but there's still enough music left over
in the rhyming dictionary

to hang myself with
while the rooks snigger

at the kind of intimacy I'd usually share
with someone I love more than

walking through the woods with my kids
on a warm Spring day in March