“I was mislaid,”
Eleanor Rigby said,
“Amused
at my own voice.”
She sat and sat and sat,
but instead of growing tired,
wrote:
“This poem I write
is for Me only.
Signed,
Miss Understanding.”
She didn’t know
all alone poems
find a reader
sitting,
darning & clicking,
long through the night.
Eleanor Rigby
thought she was writing
only for you.
When suddenly, strings
opened up the sky,
a quartet of likes,
and an aeolian
comment
trilled and thrilled
the air.
The Coming of the Toads 