David,

As you can imagine, I am trembling with fear as I type this comment. But I must -- you need not answer. My comment is this: I have been thinking the very same thing and have experimented with some lines. I am glad I did not create and post a finished poem because I could never ever top your fantastically insightful, hard-hitting yet gentle poem. My poem-that-will-no-longer-be has a couple of thoughts I wrote down. You can't miss my inimitable style (I'll have to make my own comments about my work from now on):

If you stroke mine,
I'll stroke yours.
Let's then pour the wine
and comment on hers.

Here's another:

I'm the world's greatest poet,
despite the fact of my ubiquitous, intrusive
poetry, as welcome as an end-of-days,
destructive comet.
Readers comment -- send me love and praise.
But I know it
for what ii is -- abusive,
verbose, eructive vomit!

. . . and yet another:

We poets are a band of brothers,
flagging or praising one another's
lagging (or amazing) efforts. Some sizzle,
and rightly so, but most fizzle.

Clearly, your poem is a masterpiece, while mine would have been a Jerry Lewis.

And although your other recent post, "Winter Comes Again", is a masterpiece, I'll be darned if I am going to comment on it! But I will say that "Winter Comes Again" reminded me of a poem I wrote 45 years ago, while in grad school; it is called "Thrombosis" and is somewhere among my posts.

Your work gets better and better. As to mine, no comment!

raggindragon