If April be a nation’s poetry
month, then let us not forget the love, nay,
the lust each of us carries, like a flash
card in the pocket, for the spoken word
written poorly, for that pint of bad verse;
and may everyman discover his
croaking voice, his unsteady hand, his eye
awander - seeking some insouciant
muse - and put to pen one wretched poem
ere maidens dance upon their village greens.