I am writing the poem of anger, and it has never been so easy to write a poem, but when I tell the poem to slow down, take it easy, he leaps from the desk, races down the stairs and out the door. Now the poem of anger is running through crowds of people hurrying home from work. The poem is crossing the street without looking both ways, he is not holding anyone’s hand! I run behind, trying to close the distance, but the poem of anger sprints like a young god merrily to the chase. He turns up a side-street, and I know these ancient trees, these antique lamp-posts and picket fences. Looking neither right nor left, the poem dashes up the front walk to your porch, a quick knock, the door opens and he is inside. I cling precariously to your trellis of dangerous roses and peer through the window. The poem of anger leans back in the chair where I used to sit. You have changed into my favorite blue dress. You stand at the sideboard, mixing cocktails in a silver container.