What would we do if the poems ran out

our energy supplies cut off?

How would we explain that away

without the words and what they convey?

Like the blind we'd have to evolve

with only the touchrod of insight to solve

those infinite days and their challenging ways

to stumble over imponderable matters

and stare at statues

or bleakly at sunsets

devoid ...

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I faced the judges

the line of their strength

read my poem

as best I could

my finest up 'til now I thought

the duration being of acceptable length.

      Silence ensued

      a row of stares.

I rose to leave

the room at once

my dreams and my art

in hopeless tatters.

"Shall I close the door?" I said

"Yes if you will," said one of the -----

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