Ash Buried

Though nothing has somehow come
To nothing much, small and clear,
The literary lion

In the colosseum was
Never really a lion,
Only the methodical

Poet of methodical
Evasion posing phrases,
Grading drafts as if they were

All freshman compositions
And he was that indulgent
Instructor rarely giving

A poem lower than a B,
Telling an interviewer
They were just like bolts of cloth

Unspooling in his thoughts, and
Sometimes he cut off a length
For publication. Easy

Peasy, but he did grade them,
And no one would grade pieces
Cut from the same cloth, would they?