I read it in the New York Times
so it must be true:
a poet writes a book of poems
about why the masses hate poetry.
I ponder hatred;
surely it’s too strong a word
for the random tickle
the mind’s unravel
something we ought to welcome
when analysis of the latest
police shooting glazes our ears.
Fear not—good neighbors
think of it as the latest staycation
an interlude of dreaming
at the kitchen table
mind in the stars
while cats trace figure eights
around a plate of crusts
and the cup of cold coffee
separating you
from all you think
you need to do today.