Yet Another Poem About Not Writing Poems (Or, Showdown at Wit’s End)

Pleading a poem down from a tree,

Coaxing a poem out of the dog house.

Sweet-talking a poem behind its mother’s skirt.

Tricking a poem into a car.

Luring a poem into the bedroom.

Kicking a poem out of the house.

Gunning down a renegade poem

trapped in a box canyon, sandstone cliffs 

rising a thousand feet. A  rock slide blocking the way.

The lily-livered poem whimpers,  “They’re coming to get me!”

 The sheriff of the poem posse hovers over the blank page.

“Put away your pistol, Billy.  That one died of fright.”