Epic Poem ...

For some time, I have intended
to write my epic poem
about why I no longer write poetry.
It would be an incredible poem.
It would be so moving,
people would beg me
not to stop writing poetry.
It would be a hard poem to write.

I mean, first, it would have to find a form.
Should it rhyme?
Should it be a symphony of sprung rhythms?
Would it be a bouquet of sonnets?
Well, finally I decided
it would be one of those poems
where each line would find its own length & form
   even if it went beyond the end of
   the page.

Of course, it would be highly ironic.
It would have to be,
being a poem about not writing poetry.
If I were serious about it,
and this were conceptualist art,
I would get up and read the title:
'An Epic Poem About Why I No Longer Write Poetry
   composed in a friend's living room while she
   washed my car & a cat stood guard'
Then sit down.
To a room filled with silence.

c. 1986