This Poem
by Howard Good
I was going to use the names
of the spring flowers in this poem,
but then someone told me,
Forget it, it’s already been done,
so I walked down to Starbucks,
where three or more of the nine muses
sometimes hang out,
looking ancient and kind of bored.
Ahoy, bitches, I said,
and they grinned as if they thought
I was in jest.
