The Poem Is A Wanton, Immoral Creature Poem by Patti Masterman

The poem is a wanton, immoral creature:
Strutting about in three quarter time, batting it's
Myopic but still desirable eyes at anybody
Who is watching within winking distance.

Poems cost less than a lady of the night;
They often offer up their worth free of charge
The exchange is fast, tawdry; hike up the skirt
As you look and devour, escaping quickly

Always too eager to move on to the next.
You won't be quizzed on what you did, or remember
Of what you saw; and the poem won't ever speak your name again
Unless you signed in or out at the door.

And some poems get a grip on you so tight,
You can never completely remove them again;
Like some disease, crawled stealthily up from the floor's filth
And fastened itself seamlessly, over your openings

I like to come upon a poem that's free-floating
Which has not been hitched to anyone's ego
Nobody has yet claimed it; left their graffiti;
Scratched out their message, in the sandstone cliffs of it's beach.

I feel like the first discoverer then
When I begin to read those words, with joy to discern
No one else has marked it with their body's fluids;
Staked small claims of ownership, with their word's spittle

In some ways it becomes much more mine then; my words the first
For I am much more likely to want to be first
To avoid the contagion of the crowd, the viral sneezes-
In and out so quickly then, before you realize anyone has even been there.