The Teenaged Poem—in memory of Jack Myers

by Suzanne Rhodenbaugh

The soul of Nietzsche, the scruples
of Alfred E. Neuman.  After stanza one
it yawns, picks its nose
and farts.  It takes a drag on my cigarette
and I wait for it
to sting me, strike me,
give me bilious fever — anything.
The poem sulks.  It won’t budge.
I feed it a hot fudge sundae, an entire
bag of sour cream flavored
chips.  I’m its sole supporter.
I tell it not to bite the hand
that feeds it.  It whistles Dixie
and reminds me I’m way over forty.
Hell I show it
every scar I’ve got.
I tell it I come from a bad blood line.
It wants Stevie Wonder, wants pizza.
Wants stuff to rhyme with Nietzsche.