by T.L. Murphy
I was detained for driving under the influence of poetry. I admitted I had recited a line or two.
“How many lines?”
“Actually, two poems, but I waited an hour before operating a vehicle.”
He said I was showing indicators of literary influence and demanded I take a poetalyser test. He instructed me to utter a poem.
“Utter a poem?”
“Yes. Utter a poem.”
I gave him my best poem about meeting Rimbaud in a whore house.
“It doesn’t rhyme.”
“It doesn’t have to rhyme.”
“You’re no poet,” he said. “Go home and watch some TV.”