Like a lot of folks, I sometimes really love poetry and sometimes I think it’s the worst of pretension. It’s a hard craft. When I read the poem “Litany,” by Billy Collins, in Harper’s Magazine, I could hardly believe it. It was just so good. He is making fun of another poet, but it’s one of those poems that you need to make it a couple stanzas into before you pick up what he’s putting down, because at first it sounds just awful.

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Panel 1. TV is sitting at a cafe table with one espresso cup and a pad of paper, on a patio that overlooks some mountains.
TV (thinking): I am gonna be a poet.

Panel 2. TV has two more espresso cups in front of him.
TV (thinking): ...

Panel 3. TV sits with his paper at his side and a fist at what might be his temple. Lots of cups of espresso. The shadows are getting heavier.

Panel 4. TV is standing. Night has fallen. A waiter is picking up his many espresso cups.
TV (thinking): My friend told me I should try writing poems. I said, "But poetry makes no sense." She just nodded.