Don’t call it poetry if it gums up in the craw of your works,
A clog thrown in your factory’s gears.  That must be spin.

Don’t call it poetry if it knocks you out of the bucket seat,
Wants to dance, wants to kiss your mouth – that must be rap.

Don’t call it poetry if it explodes the zone, a boom bombardier 
Bounce, ricocheting, ringing helmet – that must be shrapnel.

Don’t call it poetry if it takes you by the shoulders, shakes
You awake and demands you explain yourself – that must be mom.

Don’t call it poetry if it sticks its fingers down your sweaty jeans
On the bus in front of the crowd of tired riders – that must be porn.

Don’t call it poetry.  You want the poetry?  You can’t handle
The poetry.  Don’t call it poetry.  Poetry and you – that must be sin.