Nice

A poem by John Grey

I am in my front yard

raking leaves

and a friend,

a fellow poet,

walks by

with a golden lab

on a leash.

He stops,

and I pat the dog,

and we agree

on how nice

the weather is.

That’s right.

We both use

the word “nice.”

Poetry died then.

Even an expression like

“mildly agreeable”

could have saved it.