No PrizesThis poem feels that giving prizes in poetry
is another way of not reading poetry.
This poem believes that literary prizes
are a part of PR, not literature.
This poem may contain traces of nuts.
It will not save your life.
This poem remembers when T. S. Eliot
was the name of a poet, not a prize.
This poem sleeps in its clothes.
It smells of old damp dog.
Please leave this poem
as you would wish to find it.
This poem crosses the garage forecourt,
the rainbows of spilt oil. Bye now.--- Oliver Reynolds
TLS 13 October 2006
©2006 Oliver Reynolds