If you hang out with artsy fartsy types long enough, you'll eventually hear someone remark bitterly with regard to sculpture, ""That thing I back into when I'm trying to get a good look at a painting."
For me, poetry is the written equivalent. A published poem isn't as offensive on the eyes as an ad or for that matter, a bad sculpture, but it does take up space that could be better utilized for fleshing out an essay or an illustration to accompany a short story.
Last night's slumber party topic: poetry. Mr. Pear gets poetry in a way I don't. Effortlessly (damnit). I don't know if I just can't be bothered or if there's just some mental block installed by long forgotten poetry dissection exercises. I should just blame my high school English teachers, but I'm 33 years old. Long past the age when one should continue to blame other people for their shortcomings.
At first I joked, "How ridiculous would it be if we stayed up too late talking about poetry?" And then we did. Well, until I got resentful of Mr. Pear's effortless readings into the hidden meanings of non-rhyming blather about cold mice and school buses.
I would have pulled the covers over my shoulders while simultaneously harrumphing back over to my side of the bed, but it was too hot for that. I think I ended the conversation most undramatically by closing my eyes and dozing off mid-sentence.
