Poetry? Poetry? You like poetry?
Nobody likes poetry now.
Fiddling around with words, upending them?
Forcing them to do things they are not supposed to do?
Making us all feel insecure about who we are
And silly rhymes to fit sometimes at the ends of lines?
That's not work. Nobody gets paid to write poetry.
All the best poetry's been written.
Will Shakespeare took all the best lines
John Donne countrified the calendar.
Poetry doesn't pay. It's self-indulgent.
Better to stick to your profession
Saving lives. Putting tubes in people
Oh, and drugs, really good drugs, all legal
And they cheer people up and make them better
Or send them to sleep. Poetry can do the same
Except it doesn't pay. Can you imagine?

"I am now going to inject you with a sonnet.
I promise it won't hurt, not immediately
Here's a few quatrains to chew on for a while
There's a touch of dactyls in this line
But no spondees. They've been banned.
We don't want you drunk on words, do we?"

Poetry feeds both heart and mind
And strokes a fevered brow,
Gives comfort when the tempest blows
Gives meaning to the now.
As long as men can weep or laugh
Have ears to hear the call
They'll sing and dance and laugh and cry
And write poetry great and small.