I ask them to take a poem
And read it
Like they were the author,
Or subject, for that matter.
I say drop a lemon-scented pod into a poem
And watch it dissolve,
Or walk inside the poem's clothes hamper
And wash all of its dirty jeans.
I want them to see how hard it is to remove grass stains that have streaked
Across the Fanta graphic tee of a poem,
Cursing at the author's name for giving them suckish detergent,
But all they want to do
Is play outside
And run around in the grass.
They begin to ruin their clothes and make more work for the people who have to wash them,
Not even bothering to find out what it really means.