Buying a discarded volume of poetry Is like buying an old house with Its echoes of past conversations

But if you happen to buy one That was assigned to a class Like the yellowing volume

I have open here, with syllables Counted (luckily in pencil) out At each line, rhymes underlined,

And notes written in the margins Where meaning proved elusive, You are forced to stand witness

To the interrogation of the poet, And by the virtue of fait accompli, Forced to answer for your sympathetic Glance, which may fall across the page.