after a dozen beers or so I realize
my words won’t change the world.
they won’t be read like Auden or Frost
or Ginsberg or whomever you like.
but I’ll struggle against that, fight it
like aging, like balding, like anything
else inevitable. do anything not to make
it so, prostitute myself, pose for compromising
poet photos, exit a limo with my participle
dangling (old joke, sorry), Britney style.
for a beer I’ll be Ezra Pound, for a chapbook
I’ll be the poet your finger falls on in the Norton Anthology,
even Rod McKuen.