On Twitter literary opiners complained
about poems concerning petty crises.
More attention to broad social emergencies
is wanted. Makes sense. You know how
it goes sometimes, though. The admonishment
has an unintended effect sometimes, even
on poets who sympathize. I blew my nose
into a red handkerchief, which I opened.
I looked at the snot. Tapioca. The shape
looked like an obese number 1, with sarif.
The topic of this poem is less than petty.
hans ostrom 2016
