“Is it a stupid poem?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “it is not a stupid poem.”

“But was I stupid to ask?” she said.

“No, you were not stupid to ask.”

“But if it’s not stupid, then what is it?” she said.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

“But it’s not stupid?” she pestered.

“No,” I said, “it is assuredly not stupid.”

“Well I suppose that’s a relief,” she said,

“I was worried it was a stupid poem.”

“You said,”

I said.

“But it’s not?”

“No. It is not.”

“Good,” she said, “I thought it might be.”

“Why did you think that?” I asked.

“Because it’s not about anything & there’s no punctuation

& it only half-rhymes in parts & in others it does not.”

“Oh,” I said.

“&— maybe . . .” she trailed off,

“maybe I was hoping it was a stupid poem.”

“Well if you intended it to be so, then you’ve failed.”

“So,” tears in her eyes,

“it’s not a stupid poem?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I was worried about that,” she said.