Writing Poetry Outside on a Sunday Evening, the Bothersome San Francisco Wind Flipping the Pages of my Spiral-Bound Notebook to Blank Sheets of Oblivion

Rob Bye / Unsplash

And I realize that no significant
thoughts can emerge from a title
so long (like a snake, each extra
inch contradicts itself until one
arrives at the tail and discovers that
the trip was for nothing), because
if the title has already outlined the
idea of the poem, then there is no
need for a poem at all. There
should be a competition judging
poem titles; that is what
people see first; it jumps out at
them like the lone marching band
member who has foolishly forgotten
his plume, and is subject to hours of
careful scrutiny by every single
adoring fan (some, it seems, who
graduated from some pseudo high
school in Ersatzville and still think
that they are on the varsity football
team). But even these people have
substance, a raison d’être, other
than stalking a high school football
teams as they fail to reach the post-
season for the third year running
(or walking, as the case may be).

They are not poets; they can write
a respectable title that accurately
outlines the blandness of their lives,
unlike a poet, whose lack of a
plausible plot ultimately leaves
them stranded on a deserted island
of monotony. Poets also lie. For
all one knows, it could be a Tuesday
morning in Wisconsin, and I could
be crafting this as I sip my double
chocolate frappuccino, while
utilizing Starbucks’ free wireless
Internet connection as I type this
into my latest Google Doc. But then
again, it would not matter,
because the title is worthless, like
a United States one-dollar bill in
a Tokyo supermarket. It makes me
wonder why everyone in the world
cannot use the same currency. But
I suddenly realize that doing so
would invite more uniformity in an
already uniform world, that football
fans and poets alike would succumb
to the tedium of fate, and that 
spontaneity is much more rewarding.