the poem started with the word
the
it wasn't a good
the;
it didn't sit on the page right
like a head with a bad perm
another poem started with the word
the

the the
had so much integrity;
it floated on the page like a sun drenched cathedral

i can only surmise the magic of a poem has in it the ineffable soul
of the writer

are the good writers nonchalant
talent dripping
or are they secretly *******
their the's

******* on
the the's
making them gleam
glowing hard
polishing them with a spit shine
so it sits on the page
with a sense of superiority

some poems are nothing but arm pit stains
no matter how good they are
black listed from love

others
stratospheric
sky-blue uniforms
with bright yellow kerchief's
you cant take your eyes from

they are
the
crowning glory

the
the
in the
the

God of the
the's
peaked like a maraschino
with pastel and golden sprinkles
on a ball
of vanilla

a the
like a high end Mercedes
with the scent of lavender
and the magnitude of the
Botafumeiro

a
the
to **** for