I don’t want my poems in some poetry ghetto.
I want them scattered like jonquils
here and there along the highways or in municipal parks.
I want them free as curry recipes at market checkouts.
I don’t care where they wind up!
They are not written with academics in mind.
They’re written for…the homeless tempest-tossed,
the waitress in the pink uniform thin as onion skin,
the oldman down on his knees, the mom in the parking lot
who just dropped her keys…these are their rightful
first audience and I write, I swear, just for love.
Though death be in the flagon I shall quaff it.
Let it be said that I enjoyed the spree
But I’ll return to haunt if sold for profit
The thousand rhymes I scattered here for free.