Poem About Poems About Beer
“Leave Meeting,” I need to, escaping from Zoom,
The same time, everyday, nature calls.
Claiming and maiming our one bathroom
To do the business of stalls.
Now, time’s what I have, and it’s not worth a damn,
when all of it’s spent on my phone.
Those Instant “fans” on Instagram,
But where is the time for a poem?
I search for subscriptions, the Paris Review,
I’ll get on their mailing list.
But as I open new tabs, there’s more shit to do,
A victim of too many clicks.
I hate to say it, I know that it’s mean —
My phone has never been great.
I’ll find a new scene, my true quarantine,
To rid the habits I hate.
Phone is away, pants still on the ground,
I search for a new bathroom chill.
I’m turning for TP, “what’s this that I’ve found?”
Some poems from a store in Fed Hill.
A gift from my love, so near as I sit,
Forgotten, so far, for a year.
It’s oh so legit, for now each time I shit,
I’m blessed with a poem about beer.
There’s Hips and there’s Hops,
tight verse and nice rhymes,
Words making me feel things and think.
“I’ll think that I’ll write. 3:30 is prime!”
But it’s also just right for a drink.
An IPA would be nice, so bitter, so burly,
I’ll go to the fridge, it’s right there!
But it’s still a bit early… I’m feeling so squirrely…
Oh fuck it, I’ll crack one, who cares?
