This is one of those poems
without any rhymes,
like the kind you may read
in the Sunday TimesTelegraph.

For the real poet, you see,
rhyme’s deleterious,
when you want to be seen
as poignant and seriousprofound.

Rhyming is childish and trivial;
it smacks of the frivolous.
But I’ll throw in some half-rhymes
of which you may be obliviousignorant.

This is also one of those poems
that ends with a metaphorsimile,
like the silence of writing paper,
untouched in the letter drawer.