poems are inverted snobs
    fobbed off on us by
    berks like Anonymous, Trad.,
    and their pal Unknown, who lived
    between two c.s
    and a couple of suspect
    question marks.

    They forswear the ermine
    for a lounge suit
    and a spare pair of syllables,
    primping their rhythms
    to elbow out lords,
    earls, a marquis, the put-up
    dukes. They have lost count

    of their enemies.
    Instead, they forge an entry
    into brand magazines,
    flying flags in the face
    of any hereditary poet.

    No names, no packdrill:
    they mooch around
    on the tips of tongues,
    or grump off
    to live in anthologies
    by bribing the editor's
    unpaid assistant.

    In confidence, they
    come quickly to a sticky

From the book Looks Familiar