I swore out loud
to whatever might be listening
that I could not ask you to be mine
until I had written a thousand poems,
so I got to work.
I wrote
and I wrote
and then wrote wrote wrote
and finally I got these thousand pieces put together.
They’re not all good.
Maybe half of them are chickenshit
with no rhyme, reason or reckoning
but I did complete the task.

I worry
– often, in fact –
that the quest for quantity
impacted poorly on the quality
and that, had I sought to write
ten perfect poems,
I would have spent the same time
and perhaps accomplished something greater.

I do like some of the product
and hope to show them to you
if you are willing
and will take my hand
and –
you can’t?
Your sister, Leah?
Isn’t she kind of a shrew?
OK.

All right.
A thousand more.
Or one kilopoem.
Fine.
Back to work…