poem #12

not about the new prince
“I hate topical poems,” she said. “Don’t you?”
Like about news? Yeah, but hang on a sec. I just read
that Will & Kate’s son was born eight pounds, six ounces
the same weight as Bailey, only sixty-eight days later.
“I hate overly referential poems,” she said.
Oh, the worst. Bad as stale Cheerios. Do you realize
this kid is so bald he actually makes Will look less bald?
They should name him, like, Mr. Potato Head.
“I hate metta poems,” she said.
All that self-referential crap?  Who even writes it?
I feel like tweeting nasty things at those sonsofbitches,
but in, like, a clever kind of way. With a rhyme scheme.
“I hate your poems,” she said.
I’m with you, there, sis. I mean, I’ll be with you
as soon as I’m done shredding this poem and
writing a new one for the new no-name prince,
that is, unless, #welcometotheworld sticks. 
– Thomas McCafferty
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