To Classic Old Men

I dislike long-winded poems
by men who think themselves better
than dewy-eyed me.

Men who sit on high pedestals
and mince words past their prime
drawing out their own names

on spines, in voice,
and in rhymes;

Men born before feminism,
Black Lives Matter,
or the creation

of equitable ideas.
They flaunt their alma maters,

Big brains, 
Big vocabularies,

and always follow the rules
because it is easy to
when you’ve made them.

They delight in causing confusion
to the lower minds
who don’t spin art from polished molds.

So to you, Mr. Eliot, 
I simply must ask,
who the hell is Michelangelo? 

By Anneke Zegers