If you have no interest in literature, poetry in particular,
the chances are that you will never read this poem.
Perhaps you scarcely read at all? Or are unable to?
You don’t speak the language? Perhaps you are dead,
having passed away some years before publication?
Not even born yet? Now there’s a thought.
And when you are, and you grow up to be a fine person,
there will be more to occupy you than skimming through
a book of old poems. If you never read this poem
what will you have missed? The intimacy that exists,
allegedly, between reader and writer? The chance
to impress friends with a few lines learned by heart?
For a poem written but unread, let us give thanks,
and spare a thought for the poet, innocently firing blanks.