Rudabagas are red, blueberries are juicy

No one ever confuses me for a poet.

No one ever says I’m even half the poet Wendell Berry is.

No one suggests that every high school student in Lawrence 

should compare my poems to Robert Frost’s – 

certainly not to a summer’s eve.

No one has ever called me the bard of New Hampshire Street.

I’m more like a Mr. Smith –

a Mr. Word Smith –

Go ahead and call me a crafter of words –

it will suit me nicely.

But I know what I am.

I am something of a poet if nothing else.

How much of a poet, you ask?

Maybe you should read some and consider for yourself.

But don’t start with this bit of half-baked word casserole.

Even T.S. Eliot had his grocery lists and his notes to self

to pick up the dry cleaning.

Only if I were Billy Collins 

might you actually consider this poetry.

Of course these days, most people wouldn’t recognize a poet

if they read one – 

let alone saw them moving their lips while mowing their lawn,

or editing their grocery list while waiting in line with an empty basket.

And I never said I wasn’t confused.

But I think there was a poet lurking among the sweet potatoes

at the farmer’s market on Thursday,

poking at their eyes and rubbing their brownish skins

with the soft of an extended little finger.

I stood watching among the scattered raindrops,

too dumb to come inside but not to write poetry.

I yam what I yam.