I, too, hate poetry: people should be doing something
better with their lives
not so superfluous; you know–stupid.
I had to read poetry in our Holt Language & Literature Arts book,
it was for a grade,
and I suppose there
was sort of something in it
Like a thing-am-a-bob accordion, a silver thread to the moon, and a balloon filled with pretty people
All as important as my dad’s checkbook, or text messages and snapchats I send to my friends
those poetry things can be just as useful even if I don’t believe:
Jimmy Jet turns into a TV set, a mad girl flies off to the moon,
or a book is a Frigate; you know–not a bad word, but a boat.
The big green book, which is not my property, is turning Room 503
into an imaginary garden
where the boy who sits behind me and makes strange noises is a frog
and I’m a green tomato on a vine
waiting to happen.
I kind of like poetry.