Poet’s Paranoia

There are poets in front of you
on the Poetry Escalator To Heaven. From dawn to dusk, non-rhyming,
they climb aboard
The Golden Stairway Of Acceptance. Their poems sing like hymns,
like Arts Council bids
you were too lazy to fill in. In your darkest dreams,
they're laughing at you,
but that's not really true.
They don't know you exist. Truth is, you're playing cricket,
they only play hockey
and you'll never be Puck.
Too old. Hard luck. Harry Gallagher