Me: Can I practice my poetry workshop for you and the dog?
Bf: Sure, we can pretend to be high school students.
M: Ok, I’m going to start with a question,
and I want you to know that there are no right or wrong answers:
Why is poetry?
Dog: Why is poetry what, mommy?
I think you forgot the last word to that sentence.
Why is it good, bad or scary?
Me: Ok, I’m going to scrap that question.
BF: Yeah, it should be more concrete.
Me (jotting down a note): Ok, what makes a poem a poem?
Dog: It’s only a good poem if it’s written by mommy.
Me: Very good, Grendel. Thank you for participating.
Now, I am going to read a poem by me about mornings:
“Plunge the bread into the eggs
Pull it out dripping-”
BF: Is this about sex?
BF: Ok, because you might want to change some lines
unless you want the teenage boys mimicking
“Pull it out dripping”
for the rest of their whole high school educations
Me: Yeah. I guess it kind of was about sex, come to think of it. Oh, man. I think T.S. Eliot wrote a poem about mornings. Maybe I can use that instead.