I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

Once, I was seated next to a professor of geology on a flight,

grounded before takeoff for two hours thanks to inclement weather.

After pleasant exchanges about where we lived and our professions,

he was headed to California to research the San Andreas Wall.

I said, I am a poet.

He asked with immense incredulity, why?

I scrambled for some words as a rejoinder, but sounded

unconvincing, even to myself.

The truth is, I too have questioned poetry's value and my role in making it.

I don't know what to do when people ask, what kind of poetry do you write?

Picture me, why do I blink with a fake smile like I was thrust onto a red carpet?

Or what to do when someone states with mild revulsion, I don't get poetry?

Or in the company of a contrarian with the disdain for the here and now asserts,

poetry written today does not hold a candle to the poetry of the past.

I just read such an editorial.

Oh well, his loss.

It all makes me want to throw up my Wakanda-like shield.

Today's fantastic, discursive poem, however,

takes up a different defense.

It feels like it was written out of a similar self-interrogation,

but listen to how it sharply turns from contemplating poetry's limitations

...