I ask them to take a poem

And read it

Like they were the author,

Or subject, for that matter.

I say drop a lemon-scented pod into a poem

And watch it dissolve,

Or walk inside the poem's clothes hamper

And wash all of its dirty jeans.

I want them to see how hard it is to remove grass stains that have streaked

Across the Fanta graphic tee of a poem,

Cursing at the author's name for giving them suckish detergent,

But all they want to do

Is play outside

And run around in the grass.

They begin to ruin their clothes and make more work for the people who have to wash them,

Not even bothering to find out what it really means.