twelvescore paces

I'm pissed, because
I have no idea what poem this was
that we were discussing back then.

Lost to time. And never now will we know!
And what's worse, perhaps (or arguably:
really not worse) is that
I may never again write another

For alas: the time for writing poetry
is passed. Or even for reading poetry!
The time for that is also: past. Time
for sitting on benches, by gardens,
reading metered words from a dappled page
- or composing,
with pad, pencil, and a long pause
over a thing too hard to say
well.

Well, screw saying it well. Screw
the poetic! Say it not well, then: say it
plain.

Poetry is past.

What's wanted now is business, straight
shooting, language that lays
out where the arrows point,
and sharpens their points
to the point of pain.

Pull,

hold,

aim -

loose!

DIRECT HIT!

Hey -

what sentimental twit
put a red-heart shape
for the bullseye?