I must admit that I’m a troglodyte,
A luddite’s child in spirit and in fact.
How else could I imagine that the world
Would be a better place with rhythm, rhyme,
And meter being used in poetry?
A dinosaur who doesn’t know he’s dead
With bones encased in stone, and still I try
To raise my head and speak. A hopeless task
I know, and yet stupidity compels—
Stupidity or ignorance or both.
And still I hope the troglodytes will rise,
And dinosaurs will once again be free
To terrorize, intimidate, and rule.
It’s possible. The earth’s magnetic poles
Could flip. They’ve done it many time before,
And we will all be standing upside down.
It’s possible, if you feel lucky punk,
To buy a lotto ticket and to win.
It’s possible the unacknowledged king
Will once again decide the only way
To write a poem is the way he wrote
It in antiquity. It’s possible.