One finger tapping against 
an illusive white ceramic cuppa 
something—you don’t know—
I’m a mystery, I’m the poetry editor. 
Illustrious task, these scribbles
laid bare to me, laid out like 
coffee spilled silent on the plate. 
Not too late to duck down 
into hiding, find a proper bunker. 
Fortunately good poetry 
chooses me, not I 
and I know in my heart

(and especially after I read the poet’s biography)
what quality poetry can possibly be. 

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