Bad Poem #52

“Poems bore me,” I said.
“I’m a prose man, rooted in the here and now,
   interested only in information.”
Words were not to be played around with,
    like PlayDough, pushed here and pulled there
    to be manipulated on a whim
    and then pushed back together as a ball in a can
    to sit and slowly dry until pulled out of the can again.
Yet, as I have gotten older,
    I’ve come to enjoy PlayDough,
    red, yellow, and blue.
I take a lump and squeeze,
    feeling the dough come through my fingers
    and grin in the knowledge of the foolishness,
    the wonder of it all oozing through my smile.
And words,
    used here and there
    squeezed together in images and metaphors
    now make me grin as well,
    for in them
    I become a child again.

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