The Luck of Paul Revere and Billy Collins

I do not like poetry.
It does not like me.
Words march in lines–
the way Redcoats approached
the Old North Bridge.
And I, like the grandfather
of Emerson, sit at my window
as they fall apart,
line by line,
until reinforcements
no longer
appear.
I fall asleep
dreaming of the garden
tended by Thoreau
at the Old Manse
just this side of the
river from the first battle,
but certainly not the last
fought over words.

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