Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
regularity?

Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millennia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?

Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's rump
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hеar that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the еnd of an era?