Who says, I am a celibate
or have no children of my own?
Each of the poems I have written
is either like a daughter or a son
and this quill you see in my hand
is my woman until death claims my life!
See that stretch of paper, that is our bed
where I make love to her and she
seems to be forever high on estrus
and her gestation is hardly
longer than a few hours at most
and a few days for one or two!
Unlike the male mammals and humans too,
we are together, toiling through
hand in hand from conception to the sprout!
Once born I post its picture on the cloud,
then the paper bed is turned to its cradle,
until age renders the same as its grave!