The One

Here we are, words in poems
Offered in a market
Of pure monopsony,

Only our composer
Keen on acquiring more
Of our compositions,

A true monopolist,
Wanting every last one
Of us, while no one else

Would want any of this,
Except to break the lines
Down to words for scrap.

We try to be content,
Like teachers insisting
Their careers were worth it

If only they transformed
One student, like preachers
Claiming a single soul

Converted’s worth the toil,
Like speed-dating lovers
Trying to find The One.

We have our composer
Who reads and re-reads us.
What more needs to be done?