I imagine a field between hills
Sometime decades hence
In some antipodean land
(Maybe New Zealand)
And within is some youth
Having a solitary picnic
On a ragged tartan tarp
And reading a book of my poems
After a while in a fit of frustration
He throws the book clear
Off a cliff edge not far away
Declaring the verse nonsensical
The poet a mad bore
And poetry itself insurmountable
It will be then and only then
That I will realize I have “made it”
And what a feeling it will be
