We live in a town of larval poets
new-sprung from their collegiate cocoons
weakly wriggling, shedding chapbooks
in messy fascicles, their fingers
impotently poised on black tiles
before the menacing rectangle
of white light. Every coffee shop
in town is infested with these poets
on both sides of the counter. A sad
primordial ooze of the unpublished,
giving sparsely attended readings
at out-of-the-way bookstores. Setting
the bar lower does not interfere
with drinking at it. I’m content. Really.
I’m doing remarkably okay.
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