That Little Beast

That pretty little beast, a poem,
   has a mind of its own.
Sometimes I want it to crave apples
   but it wants red meat.
Sometimes I want to walk peacefully
   on the shore
and it wants to take off all its clothes
   and dive in.

Sometimes I want to use small words
   and make them important
and it starts shouting the dictionary,
   the opportunities.

Sometimes I want to sum up and give thanks,
   putting things in order
and it starts dancing around the room
   on its four furry legs, laughing
   and calling me outrageous.

But sometimes, when I’m thinking about you,
   and no doubt smiling,
it sits down quietly, one paw under its chin,
   and just listens