WHICH IT DOES
thought I would
become the kind
of poet
who owns
a coffee shop
sits quietly
drinking milky
cappucino after
milky cappucino
observing the customers
penning interminable odes
tiny haiku
seeming, to the casual observer,
part of the furniture,
at one with the decor
thing
of the arts
with aristocratic veneer
not viciously satirical
exponent of anarchism
defender of Gaza
taking on
all comers as
if the world depends
on it
which it does
I have developed a cottage
industry
revolutionary practice
out of this mistaken identity