scour flea markets and estate sales
for an envelope, a napkin,
any scrap of paper
with a fragment of verse on it,
odd lines,
sometimes whole stanzas,
so worn out
that their authors have no use for them.
Some have only small flaws,
but enough to prevent them
from becoming finished goods.
Once in a while there’s a gem;
but mostly they’re just junk.
The poetry scavengers don’t care—
they figure they’re getting a bargain.
Perhaps even bad poetry
is better than no poetry;
and I learned long ago
that originality is nothing but
the inability to remember the source.
But, Jesus help us, these people are serious.
I’ve seen them nearly come to blows
over a couplet of doggerel.
I know one guy with shoeboxes full of this stuff—
claims he’ll someday string it all together into an epic.
Another fellow actually did that.
The thing was never published, though,
and when he died, his wife cut it up
and sold the pieces at a yard sale.
She put them out for 10¢ each
and somebody gave her $5 for the lot–
a lifetime’s accumulation.
Can you believe it?
Five lousy bucks!