Dead Poets
Poets get away with it you know. A stack of magazines under the bed Or a hard drive disk as it now goes, Found in the clearing out after you're dead. It doesn't matter. In some way it even makes them better, The poems I mean, for the people and press; It sends them searching through archive and letter, Leaves them to struggle and wonder and stress. Actors get less, And so do musicians, Certainly less the old politicians, A share of the ever dwindling ration Of understanding evaluation. Words are more innocuous, I guess.