By Glen Armstrong
I’m afraid of poetry.
Who’s to say that those interesting.
Young people at the podium.
Won’t summon a demon.
Or make the whole room fall.
In love.
I have boots to reheel.
And no time to feel weird.
About daffodils and wars.
That my grandparents fought.
Words ought to inspire trust.
Not gambol about like Sea-Monkeys.
I don’t trust envelopes.
Full of powder.
Or the advertisements.
In old comic books.
Words ought to arrive as they are pictured.
Their world should resemble ours.
I simply don’t have time.
For these tiny little lives.
Bio:
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
