You tell the poem: Do what I fucking say
Or I’m really going to have to hurt you,
Like how Cito’s Blue Jays spanked the Yankees
7–6 at the SkyDome this afternoon.
It won’t listen. It breaks down and cries,
Dries up, does its best Catholic shy girl bit,
And you’re left holding your Bic, unsurprised
the muse has declined your romantic bait.
It won’t love you. It won’t say, “I love you.”
So draw the blinds, unplug the telephone,
Howl away the Easter sun above you,
And see if it really likes being alone.
Every poem wants to be excused.
You follow it into the bathroom
Where your advances are always refused.
Kill your babies, discard what’s bothersome—
The old masters knew it: just crack the thing
With a few hard stanzas and it’ll break
Like a compliant egg, spilling its everything.
What the poem refuses the poet takes.