"If you're upset, write a poem," wrote the prosaic essayist, clearly
A little bit upset about something, perhaps by the lack of poems
Being written. I knew what I knew, said the goldfish. I drove around
Dry ground all day, all afternoon, searching for the combination
Of recent and near, old and removed, that would turn into lines
The way that iron filings and certain microorganisms know to do.
I wanted the right name for it. I was not so upset, less than a week before
The big American presidential election set to transform the world,
Big deal, whether one believes in the last gasping piscine vote, or no.
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