There is no audience for poetry


There was a lecture on why
We don’t have bread queues anymore
Seemingly bread is too trivial, too insipid
For the common man
And I still shuffle and conjure words
For some much-needed green dough

And the poet toying with words
And applying for tenure
As a lecturer, is given a redundancy check
And told that the job description
Wants a mime artist – a pantomime actor

Seemingly words are obsolete
Like a kite-less sky begging for color
And I’m that little boy
Making kites for a living

And those kites are my bread crumbs
And all I ask is for you to hold your tongue out
Even if you’re not famished

Perhaps you will only taste stale dough
Well past her shelf life, and expiry date

And just maybe kites will fall from the sky
Crashing to your reaching tongue

As flakes of honey-coated manna.


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