Treading Lightly Over a Dead Poet
You flounce
as if you were an ostrich fan
all fluffed up on the page
waving at posterity.
I nibble at your chicken livers,
occasionally
swing from your bell-ringing images
that dare to delight me,
but you peck at words too much
and those long pauses
when you take a bow
are tedious.
Sorry to see that you are dead,
when you were alive
reviewing your work
was a lot easier,
now I have to praise you
just to show I care.
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