I Don’t Know What to Call This Poem

Maybe something like
“Winter Haiku #2”?
Wait, how many syllables
Is a number sign?
Oh, shit.

Maybe “To My Dear and Loving Wife”?
You know, like Bradstreet?
Of course, I’m no Puritan,
Though I sometimes drink like one.
I’m not damned, merely confounded.

Maybe “The One About the Parrot,”
Something flip, arch, and sly,
Early Ashbery crossed with Tom Lux,
a little Collins and Hoagland thrown in—
Something for the cheap seats!

Maybe “Untitled,” admit my defeat,
My utter inability to do like Adam
And give words their proper names.
Wait, he was doing animals…
I can call a horse a fucking horse.

“I Don’t Know What to Call This Poem”—
I like the rollicking almost-metered beat.
But this act, too, admits defeat.
I meant to write something serious.
So. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death.