Poetry is…

Poetry is…

not for some

and not for others;

it may not be for sons,

daughters or mother’s,

and it might not be for dads,

uncles or aunts;

people from Brazil,

Malawi or France;

left-handed Marmosets,

eagles or shrews;

and the cast of Cats

might give it bad reviews.

Window-cleaners, doctors or nurses,

pencil-sharpeners, drivers of hearses,

canal-wideners, chimney-sweeps

or match-selling scouts,

would deny its presence,

nor give away its whereabouts;

they wouldn’t even give it the time of day –

upon poetry they would have nothing to say.

Nevertheless, poetry is.

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