Where is the boundary?

If there is bad poetry   and good poetry how about grey poetry?

The poem was not a diamond  nor a pearl
Nor was it even moonstone  they surmised
But  in the weekly news, it got a mention
Which gained the author looks of great surprise.

The postman and the milkman lingered longer
The  dustmen were all eager to commend
They rescued other writing from recycling
They told the author it was in demand.

Or if not now, then maybe in the future;
Like Ted Hughes, we ought not to destroy.
The driver’s  done an OU course in writing
Everything from Pontefract to Troy.

The postman wrote us verses  every Xmas
The milkman gave us readings from our palms.
The dustmen read the Times  if it was folded
If it was creased, then they were up in arms.

Save letters, lists and diaries when handwritten;
Even the old  table where you write
Perhaps your  golden pen from Haifa
And the Esterbrook which knew your daily plight.

I don’t know where Sylvia’s stuff was quartered
But now it fills  great rooms  with gravitas
Innumerable academics sift it
Has all her suffering brought her down to this?

So build a shed and make it dry in winter
Get heavy duty bags from Shangri La
Every single sentence you have written
Put it there before you cross the Bar

In your Will,do mention your grey  verses
Leave all to the University of Rome
If they    don’t really  want  to shelve them
Make a university  of your home.