The publisher
shakes his grey head
"Poetry does not sell"
He sighs
And sips his tea
The ancient fan
Stirs the stale air
My sheaf of poems
Rustle
I long to set them free
When they had quickened
In my womb
And struggled to be born
I had exulted
They were mine
Mine to mould, to set free
Now in this quiet backroom
Hemmed in my shelves
A battered desk
A pessimistic publisher
I am rudely made aware
The world does not need
My poems
The publisher shakes his head
Clears his throat
And says
"Now if for instance
You wrote essays
For undergraduates
I could have considered"
The chair scrapes, I stand up
Make a graceful enough exit
What can I say
That I had always thought
Poetry is never created
To be sold ?