I am a poet poets love. They rave about
my fine command of meter and my subtle
hand at rhyming: not for me the chime of dove
and heavens up above, oh no! My line
will not be crammed with filler words; it’s so
enjambed that punctuation takes the place
of thes and ands and empty space. Oh yes,
I write in light and grace, a poet’s poet, form
or free, the DNA of poetry. I stamp my code
on open minds and on they go; I’m left behind,
a residue, perhaps a scum, no froth remaining,
just a drum that keeps the beat in murky holes.
I lurk and beg, please cast your eye across
my page; alas, the spirit of the age
is not my own. A poet’s love may bring me joy,
but poets love the dead too well; to spread,
we need the hoi polloi, the snap and sharp
of instant sell. I fear my ticket’s set too low:
I cannot beat the status quo. If poets
are to be my bread, I’ll take their crumbs.
At least they’ve read.