“What’s your favorite poetry?”
“Poetry? You mean ‘poem?’”
“Yeah yeah, what’s your favorite poem.”
“Geez. I don’t know. That’s like asking… I don’t know. ‘What’s your favorite drink of water?’”
“I don’t drink water.”
“What?”
“Too boring.”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
“You don’t have any other friends.”
“I will cut you.”
“Poetry. Come on, educate me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not gonna try to explain it.”
“See, that’s the problem. No one knows what the darn stuff means.”
“Look out here. What do you see?”
“Uh, trees, sky, a hill, some cows.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Uh, relaxed, I guess. I mean, it’s pretty.”
“What does it mean?”
“Huh? What does it mean? It’s just… dadgumit. You always do this.”
“Start with Frost. His famous stuff. He’s crisp and clear.”
“I’m still mad.”
“The foggier ones, not as popular, but usually my favorites. Here listen to this…”
“She would refuse love safe with wealth and honor!
The lovely shall be choosers, shall they?
Then let them choose!”
“Then we shall let her choose?”
“Yes, let her choose.
Take up the task beyond her choosing.”
Invisible hands crowned on her shoulder
In readiness to weigh upon her.
But she stood straight still,
In broad round earrings, gold and jet with pearls,
And broad round suchlike brooch,
Her cheeks high-colored,
Proud and the pride of friends.
The Voice asked, “You can let her choose?”
“Yes, we can let her and still triumph.”
“Do it by joys, and leave her always blameless.”