I’ve just returned from a local writers association meeting, during which attendees learned about the myriad groups for different types of writers in our fair city. The representative of the poetry group was relating an anecdote about telling acquaintances that she writes poetry, and the typical dismissive responses she receives: “I feel like saying to them, ‘But I’m good! It’s not like I write limericks that rhyme.‘”
Today’s verse, whether or not you consider it poetry, is not one of my own. Rather, it’s by a relatively famous — and prolific — writer.
If you find for your verse there’s no call,
And you can’t afford paper at all,
For the poet true born,
There’s always the lavatory wall.