poetry is hard to write
and if you write some every night
most of it is hopeless glop
into the garbage to be dropped
poets who live for all time
only write one or two lines
that anyone really remembers
the rest are only ash and embers
their names are known, but ninety-nine
percent of their well-gotten rhymes
are no more read than the reports
of arizona traffic courts
no other human occupation
produces such a tiny ration
of success to total nothingness
with no excuses to profess
so, poet, persevere
the world will shed no tear
you must weep for your own self
as you moulder on the shelf
your failure to communicate
is only humans’ common fate
like all you take your lumps
as darkness triumphs
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