On Losing Another Poetry Contest

This is a poem by a sore loser- me.

                                                      On Losing Another Poetry Contest

                                                    Does this race go to the swift,
                                                    with the first poet out of his writer’s
                                                    block and into a blazing
                                                    metaphor winning the day?

                                                   Or does strength prevail, and the
                                                   heavyweight lifting love
                                                   and death and time over the head
                                                   of his audience is the one
                                                   who gets to give a victory
                                                   grunt and drop his subjects
                                                   to thud and bounce on the floor?

                                                   Or is it sheer endurance
                                                   as the last poet standing
                                                   goes on and on about some crushed
                                                   flowers or Grandma’s cooking
                                                   and staggers across the line
                                                   to embrace the prize?

                                                   More likely, though, it comes down
                                                   to artistic impression
                                                   and all the judges
                                                   are from East Germany.

Note:  From an American perspective, back when there was an East Germany, its Olympic judges were notorous for favoring their athletes and being biased against all others.