I do not know
how to write a poem.
I call these lines
charades.

I know how to sell a poem.
To the wine moms,
fit it on Hobby Lobby
decor.
To the teens,
jam it in 3
seconds.
To the professors,
a line in these
iambs.
To the next generation,
throw poetry in a shallow
grave.

I will never sell this
imitation. 
My pen has turned to stone.
All that remains
is unresolved.
All I write
is dust in our
drought.

Poetry will live again.
She will cleanse the temple
and spill the heavens
and flood the earth.

And in the judgment hour,
when the world breaks
beneath words,
I'll bow
and pray:
I worshipped,
I ate the body and blood,
I wrote lines,
I imitated,
I played
charades.
Have mercy,
dear.