the poet next door

when you lived next door
to grumpy old
Robert frost he was always
in his yard
building another wall,
mending a fence while
mumbling to himself
about the road not
taken, the deep dark woods,
fire and ice.
so you baked him a cake
one day and knocked
on his door, which he wouldn't
answer.
leave it he yelled out
the window, leave it
and go, to which you replied
but i'm a poet too,
we should talk. this made
him cackle and close
his window.
the next day the empty plate
that held the cake
was on your porch
with a note saying
give it up, give it up.