My poem would eat nothing.

I tried giving it water

but it said no,

worrying me.

Day after day,

I held it up to the llight,

turning it over,

but it only pressed its lips

more tightly together.

It grew sullen, like a toad

through with being teased.

I offered it money,

my clothes, my car with a full tank.

But the poem stared at the floor.

Finally I cupped it in

my hands, and carried it gently

out into the soft air, into the

evening traffic, wondering how

to end things between us.

For now it had begun breathing,

putting on more and

more hard rings of flesh.

And the poem demanded the food,

it drank up all the water,

beat me and took my money,

tore the faded clothes

off my back,

said Shit,

and walked slowly away,

slicking its hair down.

Said it was going

over to your place.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5523148&forum_id=2...id#47621459)