The Poetry Factory

The Poetry Factory

At the Poetry Factory
we put ourselves out
like a piece of meat
on display in a butcher case.

Hungry for blood
the critics come
with knives and forks
to sink their teeth.

I walk to the mic
and rattle some papers
as they tuck their napkins
under-chin to eat.

Spotlight on me- I bleed.
They hush their voices
and shake heads, confer
with humorless fingers.

Was the meat fresh
and dripping red?
Or was it old gristle
on a dirty plate?

Richard Rensberry, The Grumpy Poet

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