Useless as knitting,
thinks the girl, glaring into her phone.
Pathetic. Like that thing grandma made
hanging in the back of the closet, bulky and alone.
As useless as the granddaughter Ashbery made,
checking out boys on the phone?
Poet, you had no idea—the only thing you had was the tone.
Poet, why do you do it? Knitting, knitting, knitting?
Barking, barking, barking. The dog, Tennyson, left alone.