Knowing How

I have no talent for this poetry:
It's all a trick, a skill, built like a truck
From small parts, piece by piece, one by one, stuck
Together with some nuts and bolts, quickly.
Relying on know-how and calumny,
The work is greasy, like a half-cooked duck,
And if, by some unpleasant stroke of luck,
I finish, what comes next, now that I'm free?

I write another poem. One like this,
Depressing, airless, aimless, empty, small,
About a cardboard box behind a wall
Or stupid snakes who don't know how to hiss,
And, staring down, over the precipice,
I worry that I won't know how to fall.