The steel toed, blue collar poetry
The kind that shit talks and winces-through-sore-forearm-fuckery
Been doin’ it since I was 9, that’s a lie
I’m just a wanna be – that never has
Well, I has a little
(Stammering) I – I – I can hang drywall now!
I can’t grit my teeth like they can yet
I don’t mean it and they know it
Green around the edges with the familiar fishy smell
I walk into the deli,
Tape on my hip, like some
Hollywood “cowboy” that can’t even ride a fuckin’ horse
It’s the kind of sonnet
That always has ragged lines –
Never so neat and orderly
Wait, what am I talking about?
Poetry? Construction?
Cause I do both like it’s my first time
Tyler Strittmatter 