I wrote a better poem than this
a few years ago.
It was a slick explanation
about missing files and
ineffective communication.
I don't remember it much,
but I'm sure it was more accurate than this.
You can't ask for much
when you're talking in retrospect.
This is not appropriate,
but I will not find that file.
It may have been shredded.
Naming my cat Didact,
I may have unfairly held her
to unattainable standards.
Typical male.
Well, Didact was a furry, brown creature -
like an amiable bear who meows.
When someone came in,
she would meow, and continue to meow,
until I got up and pet her.
This poem is not a metaphor.
I don't lock my door at night.
Someone came in, and Didact sounded the alarm.
They pressed snooze, just as I was.
A TV, a camera,
a case of Blu-rays,
and all nine lives.
An artist who doesn't accept criticism
is not an artist.
They are a genius, or reserve the right to be
in their hyper-reality.
They are weeds without a fence,
foundations with no house,
lost wanderers
who will not be found.
Thank you.
