A Poem

Because of a post at Clarissa's place I thought of this poem I had written several years ago. I found it one of my former blogs, and noticed it was an apocryphal Lorca poem. Since I no longer remember writing this poem or what I meant by it, exactly. I like it in the way I like other people's poems that I like. It is my failure of memory that makes me like best the line that says "Los Angeles with its petulant physicality":

BALLAD OF THE LITTLE SQUARE

I hate people who say "surreal"
when they mean "unreal"

We killed dozens of moths in sticky little traps
in the pantry and on the piano

I hate these people
hate them with a passion

When things mean other things
instead of themselves--

the moths, the traps, the piano--
there is no room in the pantry for the tomato paste

I hate people who say "surreal"
when they mean "unreal"

You want to forget forgettable things,
Don't you?

Those towns you passed through
Los Angeles with its petulant physicality

I hate these people
hate them with a passion