When I grow up…


I’d like to be a poet…
By Elizabeth Cutright

I want to be a beatnik
Finger snaps and a black beret.
Have words fall down around me,
Ask Kerouac out to play.

I want to be a rebel
Full of passions and a cause.
Words like knives through bullshit.
Ask Amira to give me a call.

Can I be the romantic,
Full of lust and love run amiss?
Flowery phrases to seduce the reader.
Ask Neruda for a kiss.

Should I be righteous?
Talk of God and the sins of old?
Look to heaven for inspiration,
Use soft words to heal a soul?

How does one become a poet –
True to the song that lingers in the ear?
Turn your back on the old grave singers,
Or let their music draw you near?

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