/ He lurks in the station /
of imagination,
dark, dank, skanky,
waiting for the trainful
of readers to appear.
He stands at the ready,
then whips open
his trench coat (dirty)
to display
the trenchant figure,
the erect iamb
and oratund spondees,
mega-meta-physical conceit,
the vehicle of metaphor.
Then, he whirls around,
lifting coattails to show
the flaccid, bumpy field,
the saggy butt end, the O,
that constitute the tenor.
“That should get a rise out of
those sleepy tabloid-suckers!”
Down the platform rush
the Keystone Prose Cops,
brandishing their critical nightsticks.
Coat still open, he turns to meet them,
smiling, unabashed, erect.
