i approach poetry
like the fat man
at an all-you-can-eat buffet
loading my plate high,
fearful that they will run out,
then returning to my table
gorging myself on the words;
the juicy meat and marrow of metaphors
barely have a chance to convey
before they are consumed;
i am a pig for meaning,
rooting out the best i can
but failing to savour a single simile
like a shark in feeding frenzy
as i walk away drunk and disgusted
while the polite people hurl contempt
and spend hours mooning over
one tasty dried out morsel of meaning
waxing on and on about that

delicious haiku
lovingly prepar’d for them
to be eaten slow

as i throw up in the corner
making room for more.