I pressed “performance poetry” into YouTube’s search box

kept company by a simplified magnifying glass on the right (in its own light-grey box): a type of

lollipop.

It transitioned to dark grey as I dragged the cursor over it.

When I licked the lolli, it appeared to move downwards and up again

like a chest or a button or a chest—

Boxed images with words on their sides flashed open.

Sarah Kay’s “The Type” (first on the list)

under the “Ad”

that I dismissed.

Clicking the image makes it bloom

and I hear her poem,

a poem where I don’t know if she’s conversing with the audience or reading a poem:

the best type of poem.

Wanting more, I click the box on the right,

a poem of Kay’s called “Montalk.”

Being from Long Island, my mind perks up: listening dog ears.

Sand gets into the folds of my skin. I listen.

YouTube then lead me to Rudy Francisco’s poem “Complainers,”

a poem that made me say woooo out loud like I was there.

a poem that told me to enjoy my half-full glass of water,

and it was refreshingly hydrating.

Their poems made me realize I was a shitty poet.

Their poems structured me as bones do to bodies.

Their poems are now my poems.

Their poems were never theirs;

And this poem was never mine.