The poet is a gate-keeper
who determines which womb-bound-poem
is worth a birth.
It’s a tricky job,
choosing
whether one should be born,
at all,
into a lifetime of mediocrity,
flopping from the chute
into a forgotten slot
on some cheesy blog somewhere…
and which little meteor will spark
through interstellar space,
illuminating night
with its own energetic light.
A few poets are up to it,
or were.
Most,
like me,
are still,
developing the knack.
Poems by Ken 