A World for Poets

This is not a world for poets.
There are no wild debauched summers
or liquor-soaked gutters
waiting in my future.

I’m far too practical for that;
aren’t we all?
Don’t the writers switch majors two semesters in,
three at the most
(and only if you’re especially stubborn),
to something more likely to pay the bills,
the toll charged for living a life
not one of us asked for, or elected to begin?

But once begun–
through no fault of our own–|
we find it hard to give up the habit.

After all, a girl’s gotta eat,
and poetry doesn’t put food on the table
unless you can put it to music|
(and often not even then).

But imagine a world that was built for poets:
readings like rock concerts,
red carpet book signings,
gaggles of children
lining up to tell you
|which lines changed their lives,
or saved them.

Or even just a line in the paper,
under job listings:
Wanted: full-time poet.
Competitive pay, full benefits, room for advancement. Inquire in person.

What a lovely world,
in which the making of art is considered
no less vital than the making of the latest model Ford.

In this world, I arrive at the Tennyson Awards
dressed all in gold.
When they call my name I pretend to be shocked.
I walk gracefully to the podium with a prepared speech in my pocket
and thank my parents and my editor
with that golden pen statue held aloft
in my perfectly manicured hand.