Not Now Nor Never Poem by Edward Mayes

Not that you can hold us to it but then
E-roads didn't exist until recently. Our fingernails feel
Veneered on our fingers, sinewy and locked, our hearts awaiting
Eruptions of light shooting out of our heads:
Rags for the rag traders. Who's been gathering up
Neophytes and acolytes, teaching them a few things about
Eros, the vena cava sluicing blood, proposing some
Verdict that's well said but so watery that it
Evaporates moments after leaving the lips, something like
Riffraff vs. the racquet crowd? Although we can't
Needle need, we can surely near-miss it, like
Evil, or cavil, or even the corral of horses acting like
Verbs, carrying the act, making it action, trying to
Evade stasis and botch, avoiding those who
Rah-rah-rah, refuse to tousle the hair of the neatnik's head. In our
Neck of the woods, it's not done that way. We dodge those who are
Erstwhile, ersatz neighbors, family members we can't i.d. Or
Venal crumb bums who don't do the first thing first, those
Eristic nightmares, no claim to a real brain, any smarts
Rainchecked, but let's face it, they're hardly more than
Near misses in the parking lot, those that
Err on the side of error: we've got a word for that
Venue that we can't any longer recall, cleaning
Erasers on their chalky selves, slapping them, the air
Riffling the dust of words that had appeared to us briefly as real.