Where does a poet go on vacation?
To a cottage on the satire shore, with clapboards of couplets and wallpaper of words?
To an alliteration amusement park, with deadline-defying rollercoasters and chapbook prizes that just gather dust?
Or maybe on a seventeen-line cruise to the Isle of Haiku, to bask in the south sea sonnets and imbibe mojitos garnished with meter?
But most poets I know just sit down at a desk and journey alone, word sherpas at work, gone on vacation.