I just heard the news
you got your M - F - A
well, la de, freakin’, da
your commitment to the craft has
been cemented
by amassing unbearable, unending
debt,
to be endured through a string of
dead-end jobs
enabling you to write poems that
confuse the masses
while sucking up to annoyingly
presumptuous critics
you've got that stash of words
that few understand and fewer
use
to be meted out one or two per poem
faded, forgotten chapbooks
will litter your home, car, and
backpack
as you anxiously anticipate the next
time
you will see your name
in some obscure, yet thereby
elitist, publication
to impress your parents and
be read by those few, now
distant, friends
you met while at school
to get your M - F - A
