I am an undertaker sprinkling formaldehyde on this poem. It died about 10 days ago, and the stink is getting unbearable. It started out with all kinds of hopes and similes, but over time, the fragile necks of those bright, beefy balls of color started to bend. Then one day, they hit the dirt. They wanted to die, just to show me up, just to prove that I can't write— conspirators, all of them. You think I'm paranoid, but I know words. They have a life of their own. They're always taking off—   toddlers who won't hold your hand, who look cherubic, but, inside, have their own agenda. I'm not mama, I'm the enemy. They plot anarchy with coded glances. And when they can't have their way, when they're permanently imprisoned on paper, play-penned to another's will, they pull the ultimate treachery And keel over dead.