The Bureau of Poetry

So far this week I've written a poem each day, and two today, meaning I am a very good poem piggy.Down at the poem factory, they had a deal on half-price stakes and a run on sentences so I stand in the line a mile behind Dickinson and Frost who I thought would have retired at least some time last century.While they let a few of us inside, the rest watch the letters rising out of the smokestacks smear obscenities on the clouds: life insurance copy, a Lockheed Martin advertisement, the fine-print of a prescription that premonishes ear sweat and starvation and your heart sprinting-forever sprinting-in an endless line.The managers come out in threes, hats in hands, each to say, "Best of luck."And the President appears on a big television and says, "Because you work this gig you are the laziest person alive-A pariah who will usher in the end of times."It's fine.I get it.I kick my little rock.I just wouldn't call it a job.