‘I shalt not ‘ere seek to sell a poem’

Across the Passagassawakeag Bridge,

‘ere High and Main streets meet,

 

A call is sent out for a laureate to shout

Peaceful odes to lure cash through the street.

 

The first three poets produced poems that induced

Coins from all tourists and locals, upper-class.

 

But when the torch was to pass to the fourth talented lass,

The old mayor threw her prize in the trash.

 

Not to be undone, and to poke a little fun,

At those who failed to bring them his head,

They vacated the post

And left the town with no host,

And the old mayor just scratching his head.

 

But chill out, idyllic keepers of Belfastian word weepers,

For there is rhythmic hope to your current plight.

 

Just expand your search, to the schools and the church,

The nursing homes, and to those who live beyond your sight.

 

It is your pitiful, and quite childish, assertion

That your pool of applications have the signs of desertion.

 

But the applications you left at Coyote Moon weren’t found,

For the locals were all Reny’s and Job Lot-bound.

 

And if you’re thinking I’m applying,

Then I’ll tell you, “Don’t look at me.”

I don’t even own a Reiki mat,

And I throw my stuff out for free.

 

I shalt not ‘ere seek to sell a poem,

For I know I’d not make one dime.

I don’t know how to think like a tree,

And I think a freaking poem oughta rhyme.

 

Before you suggest that my knowledge is less

Than’s required, I say don’t despair:

I realize that I don’t “get it” —

Hell, I never “got” the bear.

 

Jeff Davis lives in Stockton Springs.