The Old Days

In the old days,
Everyone was a poet for a few months.
Everyone wrote on Steno Pads
With EraserMate Pens with Erasable Ink
Putting their thoughts onto paper
Then removing them effortlessly.

In the old days,
Poets would keep their poems
In a shoebox under their bed
Relishing the idea of their unexpected death
And the aftermath when their old flame
Is handed the box. "You should have these,"
She is told. And then she must keep them forever.

In the old days,
Poems were raw expressions of unrequited lust
Misdiagnosed as love and
Given undeserved Shakespearean weight
As though no one had ever before considered
How the moon laughs at lovers.