Who in their right mind would want to become Poet Laureate? Why aspire to scale the hierarchy of poets, those ostentatious, obstreperous wordsmiths who insist upon their own personal truths which they carry around like anxious lapdogs yipping and yapping at the banality of life as it passes by?
There isn’t even a prize to go with the title. No cash, jewelry, gift cards, let alone a mere fruit basket. Even my childhood cereal had a trinket inside: decoder rings; ink stamps; miniature, die-cast, race-car replicas; or–better yet!–x-ray specs.
Let the Laureate don those magical glasses
So that he may view everyone in their underpants.
(I hear this is a good public speaking technique.
Surely the Lord of All Poets has reverent throngs
Clamoring for his appearance. Huzzah! they shout,
And the gates to transcendence open . . . )