There’s no Fair Market Value for a poem.
Equipment isn’t needed to proceed.
It’s folk-art that can be composed at home
and won’t pay, so I won’t pay you to read.
With so few viewing every chosen word,
I’d be a fool to dwell too much upon it.
I’ll never feel the fame, and it’s absurd
if I expect attention to this sonnet.

That leaves me free to ply my pen with themes
that find no eyes to tickle or offend.
So I can write with dash, or to extremes,
except my focus frames and won’t extend
beyond the span a toddler’s arms comprise,
twice-weekly stocked with wonder for my eyes.