Missing the Farmhouse by a Lot

Your poem is what mine is not
Your poemís good and mineís a clot.

Your poem stops, no farmhouse near
My poem stops to take a leak.

Your poem holds up the mirror
That my poem broke.

Your poemís cooked in an old English oven.
My poemís a fish taco under a heat lamp.

Your words are drawn from a bottomless well.
My poem reaches for a beat-up Websterís, underneath a towel and some other crap, and thatís on a good day.

Your poem makes people wish they were smarter.
My poem makes people wish I was smarter.

Your poem waits in a lovely time capsule.
My poem rots in a medicine cabinet,

With cotton and gauze that saw through the war
And droppings and hairs and that aspirin racket.