How did you graduate
from lyrical dabbler to laureate?
When did you emerge from what I assume
was your bedreadlocked, beatnik, bohemian chrysalis
as a brilliant butterfly of starving artistry?
At what point did the poetical powers-that-be
arrive at your doorstep to say “Congrats!
You’re the new poet laureate!”
Did they give you laurels?
Did you rest on them?
How in the name of iambic pentameter
did you ascend from the quagmire of words
and potential where your brethren wait,
writing and bellowing, hoping that someone
will hear our unique barbaric yawp
over everyone else’s?
Were you simply the loudest yawper?
Need I mention that you managed, somehow,
to scale the mountain of poetic prowess
without a single rhyme for a grappling hook?
Instead you only seem to string together clever—
very clever—sentences into bungee cord stanzas that
launch you upward, up, up beyond the clouds of
coffee-house fame we mere dabblers aspire to, so high that
the rest of us can only look up in open-mouthed awe.
How in the name of Shakespeare and Byron and
Our Lady Dickenson can you get away with
breaking all known poetic law while the rest of us
sweat in wastelands of paper, swinging between
die-hard originality and the sincerest form of flattery,
envy dripping from our fountain pens?
By what sorcery did you become
what the rest of us can only dream of being
as we sit across tables from our bedraggled,
underpaid muses, exchanging despondent glances
over cracked cups of cheap coffee?
Yet what else can we do