I try to write a prose poem
But everything I write descends into rhyme.
You wish to converse—
I just want to have a good time.
You want to sit down and talk to me.
No, I’d rather write poetry.
I can’t help myself. It’s getting worse.
The odds are, I will jingle.
There it goes. Maybe at an odd angle,
But it’s certain to arrive.
Perhaps not now. Perhaps at quarter to five.
If you ask me what time it is now I’m going to say I don’t know.
What did you want to say to me?
You know what? I’ve got to go.