The Habitat of the Poem

I want to write about the habitat of the poem,
but I’m annoyed by the word “poem” in the first place.
The rhymes are all already known.

I can’t evade the connection like a blown
fuse why I don’t like to say the poem face to face
in open mics.—Because the habitat of the poem

is far removed from a noisy room
in which people get up and read on stage.
There are two pure rhymes for “poem”—“Jeroboam,”

servant of Solomon, and “low hum.”
The poem might be just a deep bass,
a nearly-inaudible drone in the habitat,

the house in which I go and come,
where my last
will and testament is filed separately from my poems.

To perform, I’d need a drag costume—
slip hugging my thighs, taps on my shoes
that could rhythm the habitat of the poem into the room—
rhymes already known.