The time has come for their comments
on my poem; I’m the last of four.
“We don’t know what the father does
for a living,” says Fran. How odd,
I think. Why should she even care?
Her poem had a whale in her bed;
I never asked how it got there.
Joan asks me something but I look
down and don’t respond. It’s the rule:
when your poem’s being scrutinized,
just listen. For this, I’m grateful.
“What does “sort of” mean,” someone asks.
“Like he didn’t mean to, but it
happened anyway?” They argue.
I take a swig from my latte.
“We don’t know if he ever came
back. Did he simply disappear?
Unsatisfying,” Fran concludes.
“A mystery!” Joyce nods her head.
I want to reply that the poem
means something else. Stella comments,
“These folks are viable, but odd.
The intensity,” she goes on,
“dims towards the end. Is that what needs
to happen here?” Responding to
her own rhetorical question,
she says she’s not quite sure yet but
it may not be the way to end.
Now it’s my turn to speak. I say
“My poem’s in eight-syllable lines.”
Nobody noticed. Joan tells me,
“Now I know why your poem looks odd.”