This poem is not for the poets out there;

Poetricians, as I have come to call them.

This poem is for the kids who do not get off on words,

For those who do not know whether the flower

They are smelling is a paisley or a lilac or lavender,

Or if the sun is a ball of fire or God’s immortal tiki torch.

This poem is for the grans and gramps and for those who pail it in 

Mines, for those who enjoy bouncing their grandkids on their knees

Rather than wondering if ignominable is even a word,

Or how the conch is really a shell,

Or who the hell Oscar Wilde was and why he pretended to

Be Dorian Grey;

Or was it Gray?

This poem is not for Rottweilers or for those who can 

Pinpoint the jejunum,

Nor should it be read by capable scholars, wart-slathered

Witch doctors masquerading as neurosurgeons, or CEOs

Who are trying to “keep it real.”

This poem is for regular, old, English-speaking people like you and me,

For the modern dunces, flamboyant avids, imagined aviators

And whores of pixel 

Who have fought the urge to scroll in favor of ingesting verse;

This meager verse, however terse.

I applaud you:

This poem was intended, always, and only, for you;

I wrote it only for you.

And you read it!

Well done, you.