Can you wite a poem about the orange boxes?
I am a poet.
Why?
I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not.
Well, for instance, delia is starting
a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" she says.
I drink; we drink. I look up.
"You have a BOUNCY CASTLE in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go.
I drop in again. The painting is going, and I go.
The days go by. I drop in. The painting
is finished. "Where's the BOUNCY CASTLE?"
All that's left is just letters, "It was too much," delia says.
But me? One day I am thinking of a color.
I write a line about orange.
Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life.
Days go by.
It is even prose. I am a real poet.
My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet.
It's twelve poems, I call ORANGES.
And one day in a gallery I see delia's painting, called BOUNCY CASTLE