​Yet Another Poem About Not Writing Poems (Or, Showdown at Wit’s End)

Pleading a poem down from a tree,
Coaxing a poem out of the dog house.
Sweet-talking a poem behind its mother’s skirt.
Tricking a poem into a car.
Luring a poem into the bedroom.
Kicking a poem out of the house.

Gunning down a renegade poem
trapped in a box canyon, sandstone cliffs 
rising a thousand feet. A  rock slide blocking the way.
The lily-livered poem whimpers,  “They’re coming to get me!”
 The sheriff of the poem posse hovers over the blank page.
“Put away your pistol, Billy.  That one died of fright.”