Billy Collins made me do it.
I wrote a pome today, and it was ok.
Oh shit, maybe I'm a poet
I was reading Billy Collins
watching him make pictures out of words
and feelings out of pictures
words dovetailing around
a core of human
autumn light was spiking
and rippling the floor
while I watched the words
while I felt the words and
if I can only tell you about the light
the dog raised his head from my knee
don't worry, he said, there's no way you're a poet
oh good, I said, relieved
and the dog put his head back down.