In a spacious auditorium
one quiet Wednesday evening
some poems have gathered
to discuss each other
One page wings loose and lazy in a breeze
Browning pages wonder why they came
A few poems sit alone disceretly at the back
Of course a sonnet sits sapient at the front
As a couplet does all the talking
Free Verse is exhausting the drinks cabinet
The Confessionals are smoking laughing out loud
The Suicides sought Celebrity pens, bloody souls!
One poem is not a poem,
sits awkwardly on the floor,
all messy odd all over the place,
the sheet is crushed
with this passage scrolled upon it:
“Anxious sad clown face
painted smile drooping
looking like the last fower
of an absurd winter
but more so tedium
the face of an old clock
that knows the tic-tock, too well.”
All these poems gather
as an arsonist lights
a match from below!