“For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort. I will leave it up to you guys to deal with it however you want.”

Only four more days… Only four more days…
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Untitled
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Does he hear my words when I speak?
I ask him, what kind of books are they,
and he tells me what they cost.
I ask him, what did the picture look like,
and he tells me it came from Aunt Suzie.
I ask him, which kind of file attachment was it,
and he tells me who sent it to him.
Does he hear my words when I speak?
Is my meaning lost in the space between us,
or does he deliberately misunderstand?
Every day, I question: is this
perversity or senility?
And still, I wonder.

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