At the Door*

The poem stood at the door
The deity-editor in chief declared no entry
It had no friends like an Arts Council grant or a university post
It had not phenomenological spirit nor élan
It had little experience of spoken word festival management
The assonance and metre ignored the reader’s
Status in the social ranking
This poem was on the outside looking in
Shedding vowels and consonants it left
Leaving like mercury down a drain.

*Written in a Swift-like vein.

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