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.