(............sept4) Wrestling Match, 3 PM
At 3 o'clock this afternoon
right here in this ring,
the poet will be wrestling
with his editor
until one of them
is pinned to the mat.
Wrestling perhaps not
for the poem's soul,
which both profess to believe in,
but for its clothing.
The editor sees
when a button is missing,
a vest does not
quite match the shirt.
The poet just looks
and cries 'My baby! '
He can't even glance
at the poem
forward to embrace it.
Can we say that the poet
is the mother of the poem,
the editor its dad,
showing it how
to pull a collar up
to survive in a difficult world?
Even so, they just can't agree
what's best for the poem,
so they're going to fight it out —
circling each other in the ring,
the editor with his tough love,
the poet, heart on a sleeve.
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Comments about this poem ((............sept4) Wrestling Match, 3 PM by Max Reif )
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