A Poem about Not Writing Poems
Coaxing a poem down from a tree,
out of the dog house.
Luring a poem into a car
out from behind its mother’s skirt.
Pushing a poem onto a stage
into the pool.
Hunting a poem nestled beneath the chemise
curled on a rock.
Gunning down a desperate poem trapped in a canyon,
sandstone cliffs rising a thousand feet.
A rock slide blocks the getaway.
The poem cries out, “They’re coming to get me!
I hear the thunder of hooves.
The ground shakes.
They ride closer and closer.
My palms sweat.
My heart pounds."
The leader of the poem posse says,
“Well, Tom, put away your pistol.
that one died of fright.”
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