This Poem

by Constance Moore

This is a poem

This is a poem about me and this poem.

This poem sounds like that the other poem

This poem is a fake poem.

This poem is afraid.

This poem sings and hums and breathes.

But this poem is not real.

This poem hopes to use words like simulacra.

But this poem tries too hard.

This poem knows it is a fake.

This poem is cheap, as poems go.

This poem is written on the back of a 7-11 receipt, at the foot of the church steps.

This poem is written between hot day and foggy night.

This poem is crying to get out

on whateverpaper there is.

This poem is frustrated.

This poem is an embarrassment.

This poem is poor but proud.

This poem is tender and hopeful.

This poem is shy.

This poem will not ask for what it needs,

This poem is growing old and resentful

But this poem is young at heart.

This poem will fool you, will pretend to be afraid, to be hidden

Then this poem will shock you with its boldness.

This is a poem that will mesmerize you.

This poem is heavy,

is deep,

is deceptive

This poem is sly as a fox,

a trickster,

an imposter.

This poem is not nice.

This poem is crazy.

Watch out for this poem.

This poem will slap you, pinch you, and put a hex on you.

This poem is from nowhere special.

This is an around the way poem,

an everyday poem.

This poem is neither here nor there.

This poem is growing up fast.

This poem is sits at the feet of great poems and cries.

This poem wants to be more.

This poem is working hard.

This poem is exhausting.

This poem is endless.

This poem is done.