It’s already a dreadful little business
To scratch and scrape like a mole,
Hoping to sniff
Only the air of originality.
What is there to do in an age so committedly
Boutique,
Hobby-horsed?
I picture a round table of autofiction writers,
In accented whispers,
Pondering, always pondering it seems,
Who, exactly, has the right to eke out
Those inky memories
That sell books
To other autofiction writers,
When it’s no longer them who does the writing.