Real Writers

Real writers aren't afraid of death;
They cantillate aureate odes to it,
Anthems of pain laced with jubilance.
They don't hide behind their video cams
And shake a dozen virtual hands,
Leery of flesh and bacteria.
They don't shy away from public fora,
Repelled by suspicions of airborne disease,
And retreat to zoomy electropixed rooms,
Packed to the margins with talking heads.
Real writers confront; real writers correct;
They kick up their heels, gollyromp through reels,
And step to the fore to defend camaraderie.
Thrilled by the present, they crow and converse
And commune with boldness;
Then, armed with eloquent trowels and hoes,
They uproot and denounce all cowardice,
Hubris, deceit, and prudery--
The vainglory vices that hacks are heir to.