My daughter doesn’t want a poem to rhyme,
and meter makes her chant the words she reads.
She longs to tune atonally, and time
her syllables to sanguinary needs.
She listens for the shock of the profane,
the punch perverse, the twist of shifted signs,
and little cares if content can explain,
as long as sound and fury fill the lines.

Her mother’s poetry can never please her
regardless of its purpose and intent;
it follows rhyme and meter in its course
and can’t do more than irritate and tease her
when it avoids a blurt for excrement
or slang for metaphor for intercourse.