The poem was too eager
to be wise, too quick
to judge, too caught up
in a careless turn after eight
glib lines. I told it to breathe
and opened a window, so it
could see beyond the walls
of its own quatrains.
I honestly thought it had listened,
but then I caught it posing
with a beret and taking selfies.
I had to strike it through again. And again
it changed its lines. So why
do I find it now on an opened page,
waving its handkerchief to the room,
as if to cheering crowds?