It looks better. It sounds better. It even smells better.
Your poem wishes it were as good as this poem.
This poem gets more phone numbers, has a better tan,
and doesn’t need to smoke to stay thin.
Its line breaks are cleaner, it has more precise diction,
and has brighter, fresher imagery than yours.
This poem’s parents are still married.
This poem doesn’t take shit from anyone, not even your poem.
This poem can drink your poem’s cheap box-wine all night
and wake up without a hangover.
This poem has a savings account it hasn’t touched in years,
and it doesn’t need ampersands for texture like your poem does.
This poem’s kid is an honor student at the school
your poem’s kid couldn’t get into.
This poem’s color is natural, and your poem’s roots are showing.
Your poem’s metaphors are jealous of this poem’s metaphors.
Your poem’s similes won’t be seen in public with your poem
anymore, and your poem’s juxtapositions are changing their names.
Your poem’s metabolism slowed years before this poem’s ever will.
This poem has a house in the
This poem’s dignified use of a foreign language shows sophistication
over your poem’s computer-generated mistranslations.
This poem doesn’t use form as a crutch, like yours does.
This poem has never gotten a parking ticket.
Your poem needs to have the lights off during sex.
This poem is going to be published long before your poem
is cut into pieces and put back together to create an even worse poem.
This poem eats poems like yours for breakfast.
-- Lindsay Daigle