P.S.
Jan 24 2010


We console each other,
the failed poets.
Hold symposiums
in corner bars
over soapy glasses of beer.
Concoct catty bon mots
eviscerating celebrity authors.
And read out loud
to ourselves.

We check the in-box
far too much,
for fan mail
free lunch.
Do odd jobs,
with an ear to the ground
for found poems,
feeling smugly superior
to our fellow servers and clerks.
Saturday nights we set aside
to alphabetize a crumpled pile
of rejection letters,
filed under “Collected Works”.
And we keep applying for grants,
expecting rejection
from that incestuous band
of self-serving jerks.

We write more bad poems
that will only get worse,
oozing out angst
and envy
and bitterness.
But we are content, nevertheless,
convinced we'll be discovered
after death —
vindication, and redress
for the humiliation and neglect
we suffered with.

An obscure poet,
rescued for posterity
immortalized in print.
Or at least hoping to be read —
post mortem,
post script.