Dear great Poetry Society of America,
Won’t you please, please let me in?
On my New York City commute,
I pass by and salute,
And am always with chagrin.
Chagrin is a word I would never ever use,
Except in a poem this sappy.
For the word in my head,
The one you would surely dread,
Is that you make me oh so happy.
Robert Frost, Langston Hughes,
These men I surely do love.
But as for the art,
The woman who holds dearest my heart,
Is the Laureate Miss Rita Frances Dove.
And your Shelley Award for “genius and need,”
Which so many great poets have had,
It’s in the case for me,
And this is my plea –
One out of two ain’t so bad.