Джейн Йолен. Новому библиотекарю, который думает, что я не пишу стихов

To a New Librarian Who Thinks I Don't Write Poetry 

Poets come in many shapes 
Tall, lanky girls dressed in drapes;
Moon-round  ladies who rhyme,
Well - worn gents wearing chaps,
And sexy ladies who sit on laps
Writing sonnets, and love poems, 
And the one poem everyone 
Reads out at funerals.
There are white-haired poets 
who farm;
Curly-haired poets who alarm
The ladies, and howl at the moon.
Poets who dance, and poets 
who can't;
And poets who stand at the 
podium and rant;
Poets who use no capital letters;
And poets who write around
the edges of the page.
I knew a poet once who wrote
Between the lines on his palm 
Though today he'd probably 
write.
On a palm-pilot instead. 
Why do you think I don't write 
poetry?
Am I the wrong shape, the wrong age,
The wrong size, the wrong gender,
Or have you just not gotten 
down to the Ys yet?