Minor Poets

There are just a few minor poets,
undiscovered,
who float around the back of my consciousness
and bleed words in the water like torpedoes.
I’m sinking in the blasts.
There are just a few minor poets,
the ones I would read but cannot please,
looking over my shoulder and pointing,
shooting out snorts like poison darts.
But let’s change the metaphor
just because they hate it when we do:
they are the scarecrows
protecting the pumpkin patch of literary excellence
and I am a rook
pulling words from their mouths like straw.

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