My poem doesn’t want to talk

my poem could go to peru
for a lobotomy and starve
in the rainforest
until it’s very skinny
it could cover it’s head
whenever it hears a door slamming
or a north Korean bomb
it could be afraid of monkeys
and elephants
for both logical and illogical reasons
it could be a prostitute
for men who cry out
“Oh, god, I just can’t be true,”
it could stumble through
a psychiatric ward screaming
demanding, in no uncertain terms,
“Demerol, oh, Demerol, please-”

but my poem is sleeping.
my poem is in bed
with several stuffed animals
and a space heater, heating,
until my poem realizes and
hears several voices calling
oh poem, didn’t you know,
oh poem, oh poetry
it seems like you forgot

you shouldn’t drink like that
when you know you have
to work in the morning-
but my poem wont stop sleeping
my poem sure is cozy
unless its really that
my poem up and died on me

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