I was sitting at a stoplight yesterday, watching a plastic grocery sack blow across the road and slam into cars. It was the kind of thing someone in a creative writing program in college would write a poem about, I thought, which annoyed me, because some things seem unnecessarily in need of memorializing in purple prose. For some reason. I mean, it’s not like I don’t write bad poetry. I write poems about soap dispensers and baggy pants. Most of my poems, however, are in jest; I could see someone writing a poem about the plastic bag, trying to be serious and make a metaphor for life out of it.
So I decided to write a poem about writing stupid poems.
I know. It’s a gift.
A bad poem about stupid poems.Sometimes garbage
(Take that plastic grocery sack
billowing and cavorting in the wind
playing chicken with cars
screaming for another chance
to hold food that feeds
instead of wrapping itself around a tire
or causing some wild animal to choke
or refusing to rot in a landfill
despite all the inevitability
like all of humanity)
is just garbage.
They have trucks for that.