I’m an old white poet

who loves to write

poetry from the heart

and open-mic my art

to crowds at the Art Works

some listening,

tolerantly

while others are drinking wine

and laughing at the bar

because I still hear in ABAB-iambic

and can’t get,

yet,

those razor sharp

rhymes and rhythums

of Rap.

Hay!

You guzzlers in the back!

Tell me what I’m to do?

Keep listening to my antiquated muse?

Keep writing for those olderlies whose ears can hear my lines?

Or quit and take up

macromay?

Or yell to the crowd in the back

to sit the fuck down

and listen!