The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
Was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
Of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
Of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed
Half-centuries by archivists, unscanned.
I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed-
Why should their tattered artistry be banned?
I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads,
The supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books
Extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs…
A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks
Are all I’ve found this late to sell to those
Who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.”
Originally published by The Chariton Review