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Dy(lan) No Mite

The Sky did fall flat on its face
when Bobby sent Patti

To pick up his Prize;
prizes aren’t for artists, he knows.

The poet disdains the concept of Prize,
he weeps for the fallen sky.

For the sunken celestial abode
he would whimper, but not die,

Unless a hot rhyme should appear,
say, Maud Gunne in disguise?

Dave Read

Filed Under: Inside baseball

Copyright © 2023 ยท Dave Read; WordPress by ReadWebco - Profile at Poets & Writers.

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