Thursday, December 27th 2018
AT RISE: ClaraJane rollerskates into the bedroom to talk to mom, who is up in bed on the laptop.
ClaraJane: Mom, you know those poems you wrote? Like, “Bathroom door. Bathroom door?…”
Mom: About all the broken stuff around the house?
ClaraJane: Well, what KIND of poems are they?
Mom: Um, like, what type of poem?
ClaraJane: Yeah. Like Cinquain? Or…?
Mom: [Realizing her seven year old has now learned more about poetry than herself.] Oh, well, just, you know. Random. Like, made up. And pretty obnoxious.
ClaraJane: [Stares with pursed lips, hands on hips.] That’s not a type.
Mom: Oh it has to be a type?
ClaraJane: Yeah. Search up what kind of poems they are.
Mom: Like on Google? Ask Google what kind of poems I wrote?
Mom: OK, if you let me take a picture of you like that, I will.
ClaraJane: [Rolls eyes.] Fine.
ClaraJane: [Rollerskates away.]
PS: Quick, please. Anyone know what kind of poem this is? (Besides “bad.” And “visibly mocked.”) Help! I’m kind of in a hostage situation here…