slowly choking on the commas
and spitting out the periods.
Hard to digest thoughts
and awkward meter
leave a bitter taste on the palate.
The lesser read poems are burned in the stove
to ward off the chill of the sub-zero night.
The fire dwindles, ideas have run out
but the harsh wind of winter keeps banging at the door
as cold children stare with solemn blank faces
their bellies are empty,
they have no appetite for words.