He writes a poem. It turns out terrible. He’s hateful, you’re loathsome. He writes a good one, it’s a great one, he’s great, and so are you. Poems get between other poems on a shelf at home. It was always like that, on a shelf at home, in a cabinet, a chest, a box with an airtight seal, a bedroom without a window. He squawks like a peacock about the hummingbird’s flight. It was always like that, cloaked in fine feathers. The poet and the poem have words; hey, you’re an okay guy, the poem says. The poet agrees. They walk off, mind in mind, beneath a blue sky with pink clouds. They’re like lovers. We sit on the sidelines, booing, applauding, yawning, as the moment recommends.