“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.