My poem would eat nothing. 
I tried giving it water 
but it said no, 
 
worrying me. 
Day after day, 
I held it up to the llight, 
 
turning it over, 
but it only pressed its lips 
more tightly together. 
 
It grew sullen, like a toad 
through with being teased. 
I offered it money, 
 
my clothes, my car with a full tank. 
But the poem stared at the floor. 
Finally I cupped it in 
 
my hands, and carried it gently 
out into the soft air, into the 
evening traffic, wondering how 
 
to end things between us. 
For now it had begun breathing, 
putting on more and 
 
more hard rings of flesh. 
And the poem demanded the food, 
it drank up all the water, 
 
beat me and took my money, 
tore the faded clothes 
off my back, 
 
said Shit, 
and walked slowly away, 
slicking its hair down. 
 
Said it was going 
over to your place. 


Anonymous submission.