Rainy Night Balcony Poem by Someone Else

I never considered myself a poet.

Just because I have emerald fashion sense with texture from when I was a teen and twice wandered the terrace of unplanned facts. And Because I wither with the tree in a vanguard breeze torn to take off the masks needed to unveil the baggage of every notion of what is just.

I don't even like the word poet. I mean I like the word, but I can't use it with a straight face,

And so I wait for calls once removed from the patio, under what were beach blankets and shadows of a pristine posture and matriarch monasteries with a tablespoon of time.

I tried it one day. Just to be sure. I said I am poet and I would like to order a burrito with fake cheese.

And I was dead locked on the vanities on soapy remnants of downhill jurors, 10 trumpets in tune hustle in, blankets and all, a code, a drive, lights, locked.

But it didn't feel right. And so I never said it again.

After that it was all semi-spirited looks and keys to rinks of round abouts, fossils weeping, fake fossils following, all with loving arms when the gatekeeper is close by.

My mom says I should say it. Why not!

With laughing, loving arms, fresh from the Belarusian barber on main street, missing with the general for months in Italy, resisting the alternatives to everlasting truth.

Maybe I should try again? My mother would want that.

With no rigid arrows of remorse, from kudzu to kudzu, and so it shall be, with great grandmothers' heads up prevailing over the chatter, the synthetic nonsense symmetry, all to hear the soft sound.

I am a Poet.

Never mind.