Congratulations, Michael.

The following is probably unfair both to you (I don't mention your poetry), and to Jorie Graham (I don't know her poetry) ... but what the hell, Archy.

I never heard of Jorie Graham.
What’s she famous for? Spam fritters?
Poems? Bring 'em here, and lay ’em
On the line - she’ll get the jitters!
Cantor is the man to slay ’em,
Doyen of the Spheroid critters.

I am frequently a finalist –
short-listed, as the British like to say –
a nominee, a candidate, a mensch!
My bio glows with finalist acclaim.
I’m a contenduh!. And immensely past,
those years of coulda-woulda-shoulda-been
self-indulgent whining back-seat crap.
That’s why I am so often named a finalist.

Thanks, all, for all the nice words. As soon as I saw Jorie Graham's name on the list of finalists I assumed I was doomed (I must do something about finding a better hair stylist), but what the hell - maybe one of these days I'll finish my Finalist poem, and then we'll see, we'll see.

We are a special group, we finalists;
our bodies gleam, we shake out arms and legs,
to loosen muscles, pace within our lanes
in stunning gowns and fitted dinner jackets.
We chatter back and forth with knowing winks,
strike poses, and ignore the banks of cameras
We’re trim, we’re thin, our hair cascades in ringlets;
the men have leather patches on their elbows,
most women’s breasts are bared, or barely there;
each one of us is poised to glide sanguinely
down the aisle, and don a sash and wreath.

And so on and on, for ever and ever, until it reaches a point where the living will envy the dead. But I'm making progress. It started out as I am frequently a semi-finalist...