I suspect no one knows
I am the poet laureate
of my street. 
I declare myself him,
but—who knows!, 
might there be a budding
Frost or Williams or Kooser
on my same block?
( I would never think of one block over.)
Should I call a competition?
Go door to door?
Perhaps put a scroll of poems
in each mailbox, declaring...
Ah, I fear,
an aesthetic instinct,
the time is probably not ripe.
When it is, I will strike. 
I have no fear
just as I have no rhymes,
free verse my thoroughfare.

Published in 500 Miles Magazine