Poems aren’t written, they’re found,
on forest path, in dumpsters,
on my wife’s smooth thigh,
on Manhattan curb sides,
gems torn from the Times
or dirt from the Post,
although sometimes I think
tabloids get a bad rap.
How flat our flabby bellies
would be without the 7-11
smut about the latest
billionaires smarmy sex with his
barely post-pubesent princess.
It’s just part of the price we pay
for finding poems that sing with
the voice of Maria Callas,
the beat of Louie Armstrong,
the words of Paul Simon.