This poem is a response to Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry."
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I know a poem has died when I have to dissect it
to show my students how it used to work.
Gently I make my incision,
pull the skin apart,
reveal the muscle and tissue.
The class is somewhat horrified
as I remove each organ for their inspection,
lining these up like conquered chess pieces.
They fall back to sleep as I try to explain
that once, not very long ago in the language,
this creature was alive.
I replace each part and posit a theory on
how the complete organism may have functioned,
even how it may have interacted with others
in its day.
It is no use, by then.
Their phones are in their hands
or on their minds.
Oh hell, so is mine.
We all reach for our pockets
a minute before we should,
eager to know if anyone loves us.
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