Holding up a large old American Indian cent,

The child said, "Sell me a poem with sad meaning."

I said, "You want the poem about my hurt ear,"

And the child nodded, because he had been told

I'd poked at my right ear-hole with a stick.

They knew I would use that for a metaphor,

And could prove me a fool, maybe a deaf fool.

There is nothing worse can be said of a poet.

But I had not yet written the dolorous poem

Of lamentable damage and my thoughtlessness.

The child, frightened by his errand, poor

Stick poked by another's hand at me, stared.

"Yes," I said, "I have a poem with sad meaning,"

In the dream took the penny, and gave him this.