This poem doesn’t have a face for wearing hats, or a voice for radio. Has an overly bushy brow that can beat Frida Kahlo hands-down in a battle of the unibrows. Doesn’t have a talent for horse whispering, or finding its keys in the dark. Gets cold in summer, warm in winter. Once dated a gloomy surrealist that told him old tombstones were Mother Earth’s rotten teeth. Doesn’t know up from down. Walks around with dog hair all over its most proper thoughts. This poem does, however, know to say thanks when kind words are offered its way. And it’s sure to wipe its feet before entering your ear to reveal its deeper meaning.