KURT OLSSON

I’m becoming more and more Ted Kooser  

I tell friends and because they don’t do poetry—

who does?—my friends don’t get what I mean.  

I admit I don’t really get what I mean either.  

I’ve got nothing against Mister Kooser,  

never met the man, no doubt never will,  

and it’s been a while since I read his poems 

so it isn’t likely whatever catercorner 

of my mind saying this means what it means  

in any logical, conscious way. Instead,  

I suspect the imp of the irrational is at play,  

some reptilian fold in the base of the brain  

that resembles the ribbon candy my kid sister 

and I got as prizes for accompanying our mom 

to the farmstand where summers she bought  

ears of sweet corn for supper, and the woman  

behind the register I recall now, sparse hair  

yanked into a bun, glasses whitewashing  

the temper of her eyes, chin buttressing  

a wisp of grin, is becoming Ted Kooser, too.