This is What They Call a Poem

i like

The rhymes, they rhyme

Like clucking hens.

The words, they roll

Like bowling pens.

I knew them and

I know them again.

These chants, they must

Have no end.

 

And this is what they call

A poem—

This is what they glitter

            And they mend

            And they shape and

            Sliver piece-by-piece

            And

This is what they paint

A poem—

A picture written in

Fountain pen.

 

The rhymes, they rhyme

Like skipping stones.

The words, they roll

Like dried old bones.

I sing them and

I hum them again.

These words, they must

Never mend.