That pretty little beast, a poem,
     has a mind of its own.
Sometimes I want it to crave apples
     but it wants red meat.
Sometimes I want to walk peacefully 
      on the shore
and it wants to take off all its clothes
      and dive in.

Sometimes I want to use small words
      and make them important
and it starts shouting the dictionary,
      the opportunities.

Sometimes I want to sum up and give thanks,
      putting things in order
and it starts dancing around the room
      on its four furry legs, laughing
      and calling me outrageous.

But sometimes, when I’m thinking about you,
      and no doubt smiling,
it sits down quietly, one paw under its chin,
      and just listens.