Is Poetry Only Six Thousand Years Old?

The poem (as most of you poets know) is a fickle creature.
Slippery, slimy, yet as coarse as West Texas sand. It can be
flowery, girlish, or have a foul mouth like a barroom brawler.
The poem can plummet to Davy’s locker, or reach escape
velocity. It can be a damp rag, a tin cup, a bolt, a football
stadium, and , yes, a poem can even be ( in verb form, of
course) the proverbial kitchen sink, Sumerian or otherwise.
A poem can hide out from the Spaniards atop Macchu
Picchu, or in the dilapidated barrios of San Antonio, Tx.
A poem can hide inside a chalice, or in the death camps
of Siberia and Guantanamo. A poem can shine in the sun,
or cuddle on the moon alongside the footprints of man.
A poem needs only one thing: the poet, and only to
reproduce its endless self.