Every day the poet sat down and thought.
That was his first mistake. Each day he spent
Knotting and unknotting until it caught
Itself, half a line. Each month his rent
And bills piled up higher than his epic
On the cetaceous era undersea–
No vorpal sword on that went snicker-snak.
The protozoa had proto-souls, you see.
He had convinced himself, now all he lacked
(In time’s green-golden ache and sway)
Was a readership that had his back,
The discerning few he would show the way.
A note was found among his apartment stacks
In neat pink script: “Going, not coming back.”