⠀⠀⠀⠀If we were poems, you would still think us up to no good.
⠀⠀⠀⠀Good girls don’t go look for trouble. They pay their dues.
⠀⠀⠀⠀You would stick with your first impression, how we’re not
⠀⠀⠀⠀one of you and how it’s because we don’t much care to be.
⠀⠀⠀⠀If we were poems, we’d dress up in forms from a past era
⠀⠀⠀⠀when ideas like beauty and grace and honor meant more
⠀⠀⠀⠀and held value longer than the lifespan of a text message.
⠀⠀⠀⠀Styles like the thrift shop of a rich society neighborhood
⠀⠀⠀⠀in context of street wear you might frown on in churches.
⠀⠀⠀⠀If we were poems, we’d talk slang you can’t catch on to.
⠀⠀⠀⠀You don’t bother to try and you’d not catch on if you did.
⠀⠀⠀⠀But you would assume the worst. And you would judge us.
⠀⠀⠀⠀And you would talk about how the future of poetry’s dead.
⠀⠀⠀⠀If we were poems, we’d have day jobs as sports scores,
⠀⠀⠀⠀assembly line perishables that others use to make money,
⠀⠀⠀⠀but this would be what we’re like at home, this blank stare,
⠀⠀⠀⠀these stark black and white lines, these studied postures.
⠀⠀⠀⠀You would forget us like yesterday’s fads if we were poems,
⠀⠀⠀⠀but your worst fears would be realized in your grandsons
⠀⠀⠀⠀who will rediscover us. Yet even if they were into poetry,
⠀⠀⠀⠀they still wouldn’t be able to get into our rolled-up jeans.