I admit that I’m a poetic tart,
I’m as fickle with scribes as they come,
I giggle at Nash, Frost makes my lips part
and Burns leaves me completely undone.
As for Auden, his words take me home
until cummings sends me a sly i,
then Shelley, that rake, bids me to roam
while Poe gifts me a reason to sigh.
I curled on a loveseat with Longfellow,
Later with Yeats I hummed a sweet song.
Basho shared my old, feather pillow,
but I clung to Kerouac all night long.
Poets, a warning, I adore you all,
I’m smitten by verse, whether formed or free.
Over and over I submit to the fall
yet still play the fields of poetry.