She gave me the chance to show off
To myself and pretend someone was
Listening, although I knew she wasn't.
She wanted to hear herself think, which
Was fair enough, her thoughts being
So faint and mine so loud and so nearly
Cruel. I wanted her to opine and challenge
Me, and she did. She allowed me, then,
To unfurl my exquisite scrolls of calligraphic
Sentiments and self-congratulatory
Twists of English, even if she answered
Hardly any of it except to laugh and put down
Some more in her own voice, which was fair.
Readers who write to each other of reading
Are writers who can't feed themselves
Without ignoring any other being feeding.
Dodging her hooves once she tossed me,
I balanced, a raven, happy on the fencepost
Closest to the roadkill of whatever
Text she had trampled to study, each of us
Delighted by the nourishment of our mutual
Decay and destruction. Which was fair.
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