If syllables were billable
And rhyme were punched in time,
Then poets would fill every phrase
With words to bring chips’ chime.
We’d mark the meter, count the clock,
And measure every sign.
Alas, the metaphor dissolves
Upon the bottom line.
c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Image:
Theme art – adapted from
public domain image
Still from Suspicion, 1941
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