mary had another little iamb

iamb (n.): a metrical foot consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable 

followed by one long (or stressed) syllable.

MARY HAD ANOTHER LITTLE IAMB

Do the English-speaking population of the planet 

and descendants of the guys who colonized
the archipelago of Curious, the Cat Star—couched
among the first and least-dense embers cooled,
the early incubators of fertility, where growing
things analogous to trees still thrive in colors
never seen on Molokai—require another
metaphor of mine, a fresh pathetic fallacy,
with sonnets scattered here and there
for garnish? Are my anapests and little iambs,
rhymed or un-, necessities in galaxies
where volumes equaling in heft the OED
are written, polished, proofed, and posted
hourly?

If something harmless is to be produced,
however, on my watch—and all the world
has been assured I don’t darn socks, do auto-glass
replacement, oversee production crews
for artificial kneecaps, or approve (nor do I vilify)
financial backing for an enterprise
that has invented still another way to package
nonprescription drugs in plastic bubbles—
then perhaps I satisfy my mission,
my raison d’être, and my strategy for staying
out of trouble, as a poetry creator and purveyor,
pointing out, with artistry not yet achieved
by chance by chimpanzees by banging frantically
on Smith-Corona typewriting machines,
that truth is poetry and poems are so many
mangoes hanging from not quite so many
mango trees.

I have to write, you see. It is my contribution,
my amusement, and my destiny, which God and I
agreed upon prenatally and not a word exchanged
about utility. With inactivity the brain begins
to hum Stravinsky or Saint-Saëns off-key 
and thumbs do calisthenics so as not to stiffen up 
mid-simile. And thus I keep on doing as I ought, 
conjecturing delightedly, Has anybody ever had 
that thought? Why not? So what?