I go back and forth about not titling a poem. Is it just lazy? An attempt to be cool? Mostly it’s a missed opportunity. And yet, if the poem seems to be asking to remain untitled, don’t I have to listen?
Pelicans circle in flocks over the beach
Attempting the grace of hawks on the wind
Wandering jew, purple and green
Attempt reaches outside of of their manicured square frame
A sleek black snake
A denizen of the sewer?
Leaks back for cover
Under the gaze of a jumpy hotel employee
Cement mountains rise in front of the ocean view
A perfect home for nesting bats.
They make me put my shoes on
In the hotel restaurant.
I feel the need to explain “I’m no poet.” An excuse, an apology, for a bad poem. The truth is, I do not identify as a poet, but I do write poems.