A poet reads the newspaper,
amazed.

"What skill this poet displays,
that the line breaks are so breathlessly
consistent, where mine are so ragged
and slapdash.

"And what concision,
saying in a huge font and few words
what takes me a stanza or two!

"What droll irony in the juxtaposition
of a story of distant famine
and a photograph of a fat politician
who supports a trade embargo."

The poet leafs through the classifieds,
wide-eyed with anticipation.

"Such hip slang only the worldliest
of Our People's Poets could use
with such facility.
I don't even know what a SWM or 1br/eff means,
which invocations this poet composes
in such volume
and with such a measured rhythm.

"And here! Look!
What a magical fable this poet spins,
that we can imagine so vividly
what the weather might be like tomorrow,
and the next day.

The poet folds up the newspaper
and tucks it into a satchel.

"I yearn, too, to be a newspoet,
to see with so many eyes
and write in so many voices
whose statements are so bold,
so direct, so evocative
of the truth."