I used to write a poem,
everyday.
I'd get up early
and look out at an oak tree
that wouldn't
give up its leaves.
The tree was waiting for spring,
like a woman hanging
onto a boyfriend or husband
until a better catch
came along.
Each day these leaves
would say something to me.
Each day, that is,
until I took a poetry
workshop with a famous poet.
I discovered that
cliches should not be
used, and each line
should end in an . . .
important word,
and (for G_d's sake)
certain subject matter,
like leaves, are passé.
I stopped writing poems,
right then, thinking that
there was only one
way to do it, and if
I wasn't obeying
the rules, I might
as well draw pictures . . .
