I’ve Got to Write a Poem
The boy says, daddy, come play with me,
and I say, no son, I’ve got to write a poem.
A pitfall of national poetry writing month:
potentially bad, or at least neglectful
Oh, damn, that’s right, he says,
it’s April. You never play with me
in April. And I say, dude, dear boy,
my love, it only takes me a half hour
to write a poem. Hold on to your britches,
or do some cow art, why don’t you?
But he has already left the room,
given up on poor old dad,
trying to write a stupid poem
every day of the stupid month.
He retreats to his room
to do cow art, “super majestic
and flying,” his words.
And I’ve got a poem.