God, I hate her poetry

let me not mention her name here
in public where the maggots might see
too soon before their wings form

we would not want to weigh them down
with the tragedy of bad poetry
before their life has meaning of it's own

I only hate her a little bit,
like tomato seeds, or the smell of vinegar
puddling under a lilac bush in bloom

but it is enough. To say that proves
my point is shallow, i don't want her
all dead and forgotten -- she has kids

a husband who might love her
perhaps, if she is not such a constant
bitch to him.

my hate is too limp to violate her,
to foist knowledge into her and spew great thoughts.
It is mere snickers and sighs

lined up and ordered correctly
in hopes someone else will beg her
to leave. To hide her pathetic mind

from the traps of bad conversation
and ill-conceived verse. Oh, one day
i'm sure my rage will subdue her smile

my little fancied ferociousnesses won't be
so listless once, and then
she'll cry.