the best poem ever

down in an old hatchety house
in Windsor (maybe you know?)
on the corner of Blithe and eleventh avenue
was an old friend
               Mildred.

Mildred, a bright old bat with hands like cracked leather, eyes capped with
               crows' feet, breath like half-pea soup and a cleft that made her face
               look split straight down the middle;;
did all manner of things mundane.

i could go on for stanzas about the hag's many midlights spent at the laundromat,
               toiling over a machine that spun like Satan's carriage wheels;;
or drown you in intellectual words (too pretty for your literal mind and too long
               for your lazy eyes)
about the time she washes dishes for hours
               and hours
               and hours.
               And hours.
               until her western, cowskin hands were pruny sheets, thinly masking bone.

but instead i'll tell you of the time she sat down.

she sat down at her old mahogany writing desk, brought over from the inquisition
               by her great-great-grandfather cyrus, who never knew much
               about mahogany desks and thus didn't know this one was actually
               an apothecary table (and these are all v. important details that you
               must know for the poem to make coherent sense);;
she sat down at it,  hips creaking like the floorboards of Worthington estate at
               1823 Horsechester Lane in Buckethamshire, England (also v.
               necessary);;
she sat down at it, hips creaking, and lifted the pen of black ink, ink darker than
               the nothingness of her basement, a void left empty since her husband -
               Martin Worthington VIII - passed away some years ago of cancer of the
               lungs, because he smoked too much in 'Nam, and now she leaves it empty
               because it used to be his workshop, where he whittled until his fingers
               were dryer than sandpaper (which is v. good knowledge for those
               inquisitive types);;
she sat down at it, hips creaking, and lifted the pen,
and she wrote a poem.

a very short poem that can be recited in a very short breath:
               "THIS IS FUCKING ART."