Poets Will Not Be Led

Poets will not be led to the watering trough, like farm stock Poets will not fall into line, like school children Poets will not swallow any pills you may hand to them: Yea; though you shall message them with a thousand Miraculous water-into-wine poems, of other poets They will not leave a single comment upon any one of them Unless it be their own, original idea to do so And in this way, they are very like a cat Which purrs, and constantly strives for contact Only when you are otherwise occupied And when once you expect the creature to always be Beneath your heels, it disappears then With nary a trace; though at some time, in the far unknown; The wavering future of futures, You might hear it again; beneath the house, calling loudly Or find it well hid high up in the rafters, peering down at you As though to say, it were your very own error Caused it to be stuck up there, in the first place And do not try to fathom ever it's mind Though it can out think and out smart you: It's loyalties lie deeply hidden, and will only come out Under a blue moon, in enveloping darkness Of an odd numbered day, in a leap year; or else any other time When you least are expecting anything of moment.