Billy Collins

When I heard him speak
I thought he'd have great things to say--
instead, I heard a poem
about a man who wished
he could have sex in dorms
again, totally bonged out of his mind--
with Tori Spelling, or someone,
about an ex-wife
and all the many ways he wished
she'd be tortured--
leperosy rotting off her flesh,
lightening striking,
her friends realizing what a bore she is.
Another poem about Canada
and nurses, head nurses, camp nurses,
and the lot.

I watched my colleagues laugh.
Throw their heads back,
their mid-sections shake.

The Great Speaker paused and soaked it all in.
He took questions when there were none
being asked.
My blood boiled as I, too, clapped.
But I didn't belly laugh, no. I leaned
over and whispered: "Humor generally comes
at someone's expense."
I got a weird stare and head shake.
"Have you read his stuff?"

I snuck out the back, hoping an alarm
wouldn't sound. I hadn't used this exit before
and found it led to the trash.
Down the steps
I wikipedied him at home
and saw he had addressed Congress after 9/11 . . .

and I wondered what it all means.