Crumbs

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.