Something that’s maybe about something

Twenty-five years ago, McMichaels warned

his poetry students off imitative form.

I wish I could recall exactly what that is.

Something like the error of writing as

what you’re writing about. So, don’t blunder

stanzas to illustrate dunderheadedness

or dash lines harum-scarum to convey

your mood of recklessness. Anyway,

something like that. (Tried to Google. Had to abort.

It's so-so wifi, here in the food court.)

But such sensory overload just taking this seat!

I forget what got me on this topic. Now geek chic

twentysomethings, monochromatic staff,

and non-English speaking hoi polloi all shop past.

On the way here, I saw an oofty-goofty, homeless

woman, pants at her knees, hooting in distress

in the helter-skelter of Market Street. Came

the streetcar, honking, “Out of the way!”

Sirens, smoke. Then a Rastafarian rapper

started up out of tune, and all the shopping

Thursday people under the stacked vertical

fonts of bank-building signs and retail

stores… Here’s my pen. What did I mean to say?

Something about how plans gang aft agley

(another spelling I should probably look up—

and can’t with this wishy-washy hot-spot hookup).

PS: It's one of life's small victories to have posted

this poem, committed. In the mish-mash, a sign made.

 ***

BTW, an article on imitative fallacy and other literary traps.