Trying to focus on what
Your poem’s going to be
About’s a lot like throwing
A stick as far as you can
Into a whitecapped lake,
Then pointing to it so
The pup at your side can see
Where it’s bobbing so
It can go retrieve it when
All the while what it’s been
Up to is wagging its tail
Like all get-out, those
Bright, beady eyes
Of his concentrating
On nothing but
Your finger gesticulating
In the ambivalent air.