(............Sept4) Wrestling Match, 3 Pm

At 3 o'clock this afternoon right here in this ring, the poet will be wrestling with his editor until one of them is pinned to the mat. Wrestling perhaps not for the poem's soul, which both profess to believe in, but for its clothing. The editor sees when a button is missing, a vest does not quite match the shirt. The poet just looks and cries 'My baby! ' He can't even glance at the poem without falling forward to embrace it. Can we say that the poet is the mother of the poem, the editor its dad, showing it how to pull a collar up to survive in a difficult world? Even so, they just can't agree what's best for the poem, so they're going to fight it out — circling each other in the ring, the editor with his tough love, the poet, heart on a sleeve.