guess who isn’t a laureate yet

I have a cheap habit
of liking
the gutter poets.
shakespeare doesn’t grab me,
bukowski does;
I don’t know anyone writing of
america’s splendor much;
I know raegan butcher.
and where kids in college classes
have each other, their teachers
with a curriculum,
I’m here reading to my counselor
or reading some guy on a
hacked-together webpage,
this guy moaning the world’s ironies,
this guy worrying a lot,
this guy like me.
but hey, look on the bright side,
I’ve still got bedsheets
and money
to wash them.