Ron’s poem sizes up
pointed, loaded weapons,
a Sigmund-style salvo,
“I was entertaining bazookas.”
Phallic cymbals clash,
asking us to compare sounds.
Keith suggests a big black fanny pack
down by the poem’s center
to keep weapon partially concealed.
Even so, could one still stand up
with said poem on stage
and not be asked to step down?
Ron scoffs. “Even Ashbery
played with his dictionary.”
Prabakar scimitars my flailing sonnet,
finds the Kafka I’d sneak in at college,
rewrites one stanza into
a well wrought urn
to keep it in.
Ron leans forward: “What an incredible birth.”
Chad Parenteau shares an upcoming birthday with poet and friend Ron Goba. This poem was written for Goba and other weekly workshop participants who used to gather at his old home in Wollaston, Massachusetts.