Poetry should cook me dinner.

Poetry should cook me dinner

and leave me alone.

Poetry should scrub my toilet,

after every time I use it.

Poetry should wash my clothes,

against a rock

for hours.

Poetry should be my emotionally destroyed roommate.

Poetry should cower when I get home from work,

whimper in the corner,

beg for forgiveness.

Poetry should piss its pants when I call its name.

Poetry should walk at least ten feet behind me

thinking how much it loves me.

Poetry should drink cherry soda

and cry when it burps out of its nose.

Poetry should understand

why I spit on it,

why I walk past without acknowledging it.

Poetry should tell me bedtime stories

and tuck me in at night.