I wonder about us poets
our hierarchy of admiration
the poetic rank and file
the publishing royalty
a caste system that
the richly-worded lead
and the rest follow
Who strives to write
uncomplicated beauty
for the simple
the word poor
the sweaty and
hard-working?
I feel for the common man
his red roses and blue violets
buried in a cascade
of strange-smelling flowers
Don’t they also need poetry
to read at a kitchen table
with their dreamy-eyed coffee
or late at night by a fire
fed by logs of plain words
to warm them inside?