When a poet shows he is jealous

Everyone loves poetry. In theory. Not that anyone actually wants their child to end up a poet.
In that sense, we — ever since I was an undergrad, I confess to occasionally publishing poems in little magazines with, as Calvin Trillin used to say, circulations in the high two figures — are like guitar players. Fine with parents if Junior wants to pluck a little. Just God forbid he should try to take it on the road.
But we continue to exalt poetry. To treat it as the best manmade thing