I give up. There’s no good. The criminal
wins. Okay, I admit it, I’m evil.
There is too much poetry,
too much of it enjoyed by crooks.
At the races, those names they give horses
are poems as much as poems in books.
“Uncle’s Uncle.” “Exiled Prince.” And low-lifes
ply nicknames. Checkers. Knocked-over chess pieces:
black knights, horses, castles, rooks.
Too much poetry criminals get to enjoy
easily, without thinking, like a toy.
I, with clean conscience, study to know
the paragraphs and lives of Pessoa and Rimbaud.
I study! I work! And then I have to see
art packaged for criminality.
Not just poetry, but painting!
Thugs are surrounded by art, too.
Film Noir. That troubled day at the lake when I argued with you.