Mute Poem by Phillip Erb

A short, black skirt with blonde hair walks a mutt,
laughs aloud into a tiny telephone at this time everyday.
I wrote her an invitation - even though I don’t even know
Her first name, how she spells it, what she takes in her coffee,
or if she is in love, but the thought never finds paper,
the question and I cannot decide on the words,
and we bicker back and forth like two senators:
in love with the argument and the filibuster.
Tell me what it is you feel about poetry
Do you wonder why the final lines rhyme
on their own, while nine others don’t,
like a note on the side, they stand alone?