Jerry McGower could talk for an hour
And never take a breath.
He wrote what he called poetry
And bored us all to death with his wit,
Which was almost witty but not quite,
And his deep thoughts which he summed into slogans
Which were almost trite,
Yet not quite up to the level of trite,
If there's something just a little bit lower than that,
Then that's what Jerry McGower's poetry could be called.
The old hot air blower could go on and on.
And so if there's one thing that could be said
It's that he was continuous.
And that might be good if you were in bed or needed CPR,
But no one could bring themselves
To tell him that all the true poetry stars are dead,
And that "living poet" is a term
The literary world speaks of as oxymoron.
And maybe he wouldn't hear that first part,
And then he would know
What he truly was--
A northbound end of a southbound pushcart.

-jenn