Crimes Against Literature

The terrible poetry police
will come to my door, burst through

with no warrant, and set about
inspecting and inquiring, checking

the poem from a multitude of angles
and perspectives. They will ask

if I were aware of this mundane clause
or that horrible, groan-worthy pun

that was never funny or clever to begin with.
They will, in their crisp blue uniforms

and comically octagonal hats, crouch
to examine every historical allusion

for relevancy and appropriateness.
One officer may straighten and point sternly

at an unnecessary dash or semicolon,
at my pretentiousness. Then, satisfied,

they will write and hand me the carbon
of a ticket, warn me not to do it again,

saunter back to their stealth-black sedan
and seamlessly glide into the stark onyx night.