inspiration

you dislike
so much poetry.
you shake your head
and curse what
you read.
you use alliteration
and metaphors
to show your disdain
for frost
and Whitman
bukowski and plath.
you read and
read, turning the pages
while soaking
in the tub, lying in
bed, at a red light
in your truck.
how angry you get
at these poems.
what drivel,
what junk, who did
these people sleep
with to get these
poems published?
what devil do you need
to sell your soul
to to get there too.
and yet
how carefully you
put these books back
onto the shelves.
sliding them
safely into places
where they can be
disliked even more,
at a later date when
you need inspiration.