There are famous poets
Stacked on trolleys
Like cases of beer.
What to do with famous poets?
You can't just throw them out--
They might be worth something
Famous poets are nearly always men--
Even the women.
And then wander off.
I stacked famous poets in my fireplace--
Feet to foreheads,
Then lit them;
But they were damp and peevish,
Making more smoke than fire.
Christina Rossetti told me,
"Bury them deep,
So the dogs won't dig them up."
Emily Dickinson told me,
"Use them for compost,
Then bring your longing to my room."
I am as unknown as a laundress in the Famous Poets' House;
Even my pulse is a secret, known only to my cat,
And to each fresh-struck hour of the night.
I'm telling you,
I'm going to bring them all down.
No one will see me
Wheel the trolleys out to the fen--
Only one will hear me
Coming up the back stairs empty-handed
For One Shot Wednesday week 19
For the record, I adore Christina and Emily. The "famous poets" of my poem are the ones who, though terribly well-known, basically made me want to shoot myself in the head rather than study them.