Let's Talk About Poetry

My real name is Patricia.
But, secretly
I know my name is Portia, the Poet.
Yesterday my name was Rhyme Scheme
and Onomatopoeia, and Simile and Metaphor
Today it is Free Verse
and Free Reign and Free-Range Chicken.
It is Mountain Top Removal and
Mustangs in the Meadow
Butterfly on the Wing. Kite on a String.
I once got a "C" because I
didn't understand assonance,
but now I understand
what my Profesoro did not,
That poetry is cut from the clothes you wear.
It is the patches on your pocket,
The heart on your sleeve, the raveling hem,
The popped button that has come undone,
The soul that refuses to be labeled
by any poetry paraphernalia.
Perfect Poetry seeps from your pores,
refusing to be corralled, cornered, contained,
or choreographed.
Mopped up with a red bandana,
it is the sweat on your brow.
True poetry is the anomaly,
the albino, the rare,
eclectic unpolished gem.
It spills forth when understanding is complete.
Do not label it.
It defies a label, a price tag, a bar code.
True poetry cannot be graded.
If you do not understand it,
you may have a rain-check,
But beware.
Tomorrow my name will be
"Poet Laureate!"