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:  Yeah.

Mom:  Mm-hmm?

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?

ClaraJane:  Yeah.

Mom:  OK, if you let me take a picture of you like that, I will.

ClaraJane:  [Rolls eyes.]  Fine.

Mom:  [Click.]

ClaraJane:  [Rollerskates away.]

SCENE. 

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…

Is it even a poem?  What even is a poem?  

See:  CircusKitchen.com/2018/09/12/Call-Me-Emily-Dispatch-from-the-Domicile/

♥