I’m alone in a small rowboat on the sea of Poetry.
A few feet away is a great white whale.
I’m offended by the comments the whale makes.
He's certain of his superiority to me in every way.
The whale blows opulent spouts of water about “community”.
But it’s a gated community keeping most poets at bay.
It’s time for me to stop turning my cheek.
I harpoon Moby Bard, spilling blood.
The whale proceeds to ram my rowboat until it’s destroyed.
I tumble into icy water and begin searching for safe harbor.
After I swim a few miles, I see another rowboat.
It’s filled with four studious practitioners of verse.
When I approach the boat, I cry out to the poets:
“Listen to me! I’m trying to help more of us to be recognized!”
For a moment, they stop to hear.
Then, they smash my unsubmerged body with their oars.
“O vile, foolish, childish, profane, divisive man!” they say in unison.
“Consider this a scolding! Never challenge the wise white whale again!”
After the pummeling ends, the four poets row to the whale.
They proceed to clean and bind his wounds.
I watch the poets’ efforts through a haze of pain.
Then, I swim away--wondering why I bought a rowboat.