Classroom

It once was poets were secret sharers.
We had the facts and we voted obscure
references and high emotional
intelligence. We left it all to be
discovered, teaching men to fish for words
and women to fish for equality.
The lines are all different lengths and the
stanzas fat or short or unmeasured or
strictly structured, but each poem ending
eventually, often by its own
hand. But there are no secrets anymore.
We have nothing left to share but old rhymes
and dusty structures, as though metaphors
were heirlooms we found in a steamer trunk.

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