Hereâ€™s my question. What if there was a poem That didnâ€™t know what it was about until it got To the end of itself? So that the poetâ€™s job isnâ€™t To play with imagery and cadence and metrical Toys in order to make a point, but rather to just Keep going in order to find out that the poem is About how hard it is to watch your kids get hurt By things they canâ€™t manage and you cannot fix. If I had been the boss of this poem I would have Made it so they can manage things, or I could be The quiet fixer I always wanted to be as a father; But thatâ€™s not what the poem wanted to be about, It turns out. This poem is just like your daughter: No one knows whatâ€™s going to happen, and there Will be pain, and you canâ€™t fix everything, and it Hurts to watch, and you are terrified even as you Try to stay calm and cool and pretend to manage. Some poems you can leave when they thrash too Much but kids are not those sorts of poems. They Have to keep writing themselves, and it turns out You are not allowed to edit. Youâ€™re not in charge At allâ€”a major bummer. I guess thereâ€™s a lesson Here about literature, about how you have to sing Without knowing the score . . . something like that. All you can do is sing wildly and hope itâ€™ll finish So joyous and refreshing that you gape with awe.