[A Poem]

I live with an editor,
She shares my room with me.
And, every thought or idea
Passes by her, before it passes by me.

Sometimes, we argue—I should say—
She shouts at me throughout the day.
“Don’t say that! Now, stop that, you!”
She will not listen, so I shout, too.

Oh, so ruthless is my editor.
“Hold your tongue; don’t roll your eyes!”
She cuts me off and pulls me back,
“No free speech here,” is my bitter reply.

by The Saxophone Player’s Wife ❤