There’s No Room for Petty Poets
A poem
Envy, no pettier sight —
green to my gills when reminded
of a man who made it and I’m still
rolling dough, word putty, publisher
submissions after a 14-year hiatus
from trying to crack the code
of making it as a poet —
Odd, cracked egg oozing
energy of weird animosity
in Saturday’s writing group:
Who are you? We don’t see this from you.
Be happy. Everyone deserves to be heard.
Yes, but let my jelly donut envy
ooze for a few minutes while I tick
through the boxes of why this doesn’t even make sense.
That damn tiger of comparison, scratching its claws on my skin.
Envy’s not a pretty game and there’s no room for petty poets.
Straighten up, shoot straight, aim high. Rise to the top with the others.
Cream like this will rise, cloudpuffs — pastries of poetry.
I’ve held onto poems’ rough edges until my 40s,
past the age of ego, envy, and greed —
shouldn’t it be?
