JOHN HENRY.

Call me John Henry,

raging against the AI steam engine

with blood and sweat, pen and pad.

You could have entered a prompt

and exited with five poems

in the time it took me to remember

that larger than life hero of Americana;

swinging hammers and commanding his big blue ox.

You could have but it would have

not been the longings of my heart,

which is one of the few alive

in the 21st century breakdown.