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.

— Why?
 — 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.

— No.
 — 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?
 — Yes.

— You must have reminded me of the one who took all my pencils away. 
 — . . .