Workshop Poem by Ronald Shields

Too many people who know
too many things. Could they
possibly know it all?

Having read some poetry,
having taken some classes,
having memorized some poems?

They gently execrate
each other using words
like flow, meter, cliche
(the most damning) ,
craft and strophe.

Dissecting the poems
while they still breathe.
Unfolding skin,
turning bone to
examine tendons.

They will come for you
if you ask.
They will come.

And when it is done
let your epitaph read,
'He Believed In His Simple Voice.'