poems are inverted snobs
fobbed off on us by
berks like Anonymous, Trad.,
and their pal Unknown, who lived
between two c.s
and a couple of suspect
question marks.

They forswear the ermine
for a lounge suit
and a spare pair of syllables,
primping their rhythms
to elbow out lords,
earls, a marquis, the put-up
dukes. They have lost count

of their enemies.
Instead, they forge an entry
into brand magazines,
flying flags in the face
of any hereditary poet.

No names, no packdrill:
they mooch around
on the tips of tongues,
or grump off
to live in anthologies
by bribing the editor's
unpaid assistant.

In confidence, they
come quickly to a sticky

From Looks Familiar