ONCEthere was an old woman
who wrote so many poems
she didn't know what to do.
She labored! She sweated!
In pain she brought them forth: this
the only life that she knew --
they arrived in a rush
of tears, singly, at first. Then
they started coming in twos --
these babies of hers. And
then more and more, all fathered
by an overactive Muse
who sat back while she slaved
over the page. No rest for
the weary; she has no clue
on where to find it -- so,
let her present number two
thousand five hundred to you!
(c) 2008, Karla Dorman
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