Poetry...?

This is what I would begin a book of poetry with--in another world where I were published.

They told me that a compilation
of poetry had to have cohesiveness,
a common thread throughout.
So I loosely sewed the pages
together.

Poetry, I said, here is my mind,
make it your own. So it ran
to my bookcase and curled up
with 'Four Quartets.'
What a slut.

Poetry is the promiscuity
of style,
if you ask me.
To date no one has.

My pen may be mightier than the sword,
but it's no match for a publisher's scorn.
They returned my precious book of poetry
as loose pages with a post-it reading:
'What the Fuck!'
Exclamation point.

I sent them a post-it back reading:
'Use of the word "what" begs a question mark.
P.S. where is my thread?'

I received one more post-it:
'we wondered the same thing.'