an oversized white envelope
arrived in the mail,
poetry in plain sight through the window.

Intercepted. By mother.

words too prominently displayed,
read by by prying eyes with beetled brows.
frowning disapproval obviously evident.

Ignored. By her.

an experiment finally completed.
satisfaction in due process come full circle,
the question answered.

Acceptance. She smiled.

the pans clashed, the dishes rattled,
until the unspoken question oozed forth.
"Why can't you write anything good?"

Judgment. As usual.

measuring stare returned the question,
with ironicly amused smile pinching chapped lips.
so much for communication.

Wisdom. In silence.

the writer merely shrugged in reply,
her laughter carefully hidden for later
when she placed pen to paper yet again.

Humor. The punchline:

it wasn't even one of her truly depressing poems.

12/18/2003

Author's Note: real event written into fiction. kind of like this, it was amusing. more how i wish i had responded instead of getting involved in long drawn out debate trumped by "you'll understand when you have kids..."

putting this under humor. i find it funny. altho i'm not so sure anybody else will.

Posted on 12/18/2003
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