the worst poem in the world

I said I would write,
I said, slowing down
my gait, the worst
poem in the world. I
have got all the
images in — I tap —
here, in my skull.
I have got, I said,
all the time in the -

The air is still near the
lower bridge and
some men and women
in a pack are slapping
their arms and legs and
backs in some sort of
routine group exercise.

Down here, the weight
of the tower blocks does
impress. The weight of
the water, when it slaps,
impresses also. You say
fog, thick fog, sort of makes a
sfumato; aka a painterly effect, if
you squint. Some people
are impressed by what they
themselves can think to say.

A girl is sitting off
to one side of the hitting group.
She is tattooing the word
“ORPHANS” on her thigh
with a battery-operated gun.
I snort. You smirk.
I’d like to push you against
the tower now and kiss, possibly very
close to the girl.

My shoes are hard. The earth
is soft. This makes for quite
belabored walk.
And now I take you
spooling behind a parade of ducks.
Of many throats they make
one chaotic organ, if you
close your eyes. I make a
note and hold your hand.
“Inside of every woman,
every man,” I begin to say, “is
a child, asking to be unborn…”

I said I would write,
I say again,
wheeling round to see you,
the worst poem.
Haha. I am not good for it.