Bad News, Good News Poem by Patti Masterman

Sometimes I delude myself
Thinking I'm writing poems, but then I read somebody elses
And I get so blown away, and I realize again:
I'm not really writing poems; I'm just building houses out of cards;
Forts out of chairs and blankets;
Making an out of alphabetical order dictionary
Missing all the best words.
I could shrivel up from the white hot jealousy
But I also pay secret homage inside,
Kneel down to that other writing
Take off my hat because
That's real, that's soulful, that's full of vitality and meaning:
I'd pray for a blood transfusion with your blood
I'd beg for a brain transplant
Or at least a telepathic exchange for a fortnight,
Not that any of those can help with my problem-
Like Salieri, I'm not so lacking in discernment,
As to not recognize true genius-
Unfortunately my senses are fully intact there.
So even though I leave nice comments on your smoking stuff..
Never think for one minute, that I would not enjoy
Hearing news of your death.