Polly Perverse


My daughter doesn’t want a poem to rhyme,
and meter makes her chant the words she reads.
She’d rather voice atonally, and time
her syllables to sanguinary needs.
She’s eager for the shock of the profane,
the punch perverse, the twist of shifted signs,
and little cares if content can explain,
as long as sound and fury fill the lines.

Her mother’s poetry can never please her
regardless of its purpose and intent,
its code as disciplined as any Morse.
It can’t do more than irritate and tease her
when it avoids a blurt for excrement,
or slang for metaphor for intercourse.

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