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I heard it through the grapevine that you wrote a poem about me
With poetic curiosity getting the best of my thoughts
I thought I ought
To google and find out where it was
To see what it sees
Or does what it does
Spending time
Perusing over every word on each line
It was all just a jigsaw puzzle of words you were attempting to rhyme
I spent more time criticizing its meter and style
And all the while missing the message you were trying to convey
Because that what’s writers of poems always do
Dissecting the ebb and flow and checking under the hood to see how the motor runs
A poetic mechanic, I am
And when I was done with it
Scratching my head
Still at a loss for what you were trying to say
You conveyed nothing to me
What you scribed and labeled as
Poetry
Was a disorganized assembly of confused words
More of a blog than a poem
And why it was directed at me
Maybe to get my attention
To distract me from scribing something worthy to post on this page
I am not enraged
But was quite amused
And somewhat flattered that I crossed your mind
That you etched out a few moments of your precious time
To write a poem about me
Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical of the work you penned
Then again
I thought of who you are and the motive behind your attempt to distract me
From my duty of being a writer of poems
In the proper form of actual poetry
Plucking a grape from the grapevine I heard
Evaluating and critical of every adjective, noun and verb
I am bound to keep writing
Because I know not who else is watching and writing poems about me
Part curious
Part humble
Part critical
Always interested in what you attempt to convey
Checking again tomorrow
For what you have to say
Make sure it is not a blog
Make sure it is at least in the form of poetry
Then I will consider it the highest form
Of flattery
