The poem is dragged into the interview room
in hand-cuffs.
The officer points to the chair
ordering the poem to take a seat.
What have you got to say for yourself?
The cop asks the poem.
The poem replies,
you have my statement.
It\'s all in there.
The officer dons a pair of reading glasses,
and reads out a line.
What is the significance of colour?
Does green mean youth? Innocence?
The poem shrugs.
You tell me. It could mean everything,
it could mean nothing.
I want you to tell us
what this all means.
It\'s about death isn\'t it?
It\'s always about death
with you lot, the officer says.
You are going to have to co-operate,
you know? The cop insists.
The poem smiles and repeats
the opening line of the statement.
Tell me what that means, says the cop.
Can you not just enjoy beauty
for what it is, for how it makes you feel?
The poem says.
When you watch the sunrise,
you don\'t ask why the sky is blue.
A verse can be wonderful
and make you feel things,
you don\'t need to scrutinise
every little detail.
The officer sighs and gathers up
the stack of papers on the desk,
before removing the hand-cuffs
from the poem\'s wrists.
Okay, the officer says,
you are free to go.
The poem stands on shaky legs,
rubbing its sore wrists,
and staggers from the room,
a weaker poem than when it walked in.