Second Thoughts. 

You think you’re writing poetry 

and then you read one in a New Yorker, 

about elephants, 

tied together, heads down, 

being traipsed in a line through the Queen’s midtown tunnel after midnight, 

on their way to Ringling Brothers downtown, 

forever away from their home and the wild, 

and you just want to stop writing what, 

for all these years, 

you’ve been calling poetry.