Then There’s The One About The Blue-Eyed Lady / Who Took All My Pencils Away
— What are you doing?
— Burning your poems.
— All of them?
— All except this one, which, it’s not really a poem.
— I’m not burning this one so you can read it later and know where the rest of them went.
— No, I meant, why are you burning the rest of the poems?
— They are literally everywhere. You’ve taken over every cabinet, drawer and horizontal surface in the house.
— They are my poems.
— Some of them have started to crawl around on their own.
— I found The One About The Hacksaw trying to escape from the makeshift prison where you’d put it, and where you’d put about a thousand others, in the backup freezer in the garage.
— Truly? I wrote a poem called The One About The Hacksaw?
— Yes. And also, The One About How The Prison Bars Were Too Hard To Cut Through.
— Sounds like a bit of a obsession.
— And The One About How Mean The Guards Are Around Christmastime.
— I had no idea.
— And one of the prison guards bears a striking resemblance to me.
— Blue eyes?
— And I quote, “As blue as the winter sky, the cutthroat impediment to my freedom.”
— I wrote that?
— You must have reminded me of the one who took all my pencils away.
— . . .