‘Well doctor, what do you think?’
He took the poem and examined it.
‘Mmmm…’
The clock ticked nervously.
‘This will have to come out for a start.’
He stabbed a cold finger into its heart.
‘Needs cutting here as well.
This can go.
And this is weak. Needs building up.’
He paused…
‘But it’s the Caesura I’m afraid,
Can’t do much about that.’
My palms sweated.
‘Throw it away and start again, that’s my advice.
And on the way out, send in the next patient, will you?’
I buttoned up my manuscript and left.
Outside, it was raining odes and stanzas.
I caught a crowded anthology and went directly home.
Realizing finally that I would never be published.
That I was to remain one of the alltime great unknown poets,
My work rejected by even the vanity presses,
I decided to end it all.
Taking an overdose of Lyricism
I awaited the final peace
When into the room burst the Verse Squad
Followed by the Poetry Police.