Dola’s not much of a poet.

I have to give her a theme and idea,

a personal stance, an emotion and a suggestion regarding a form.

She can’t write a poem without me.

I suggest she needs to improve.

She asks me to teach her my secrets.

I, of course refuse.

I can’t let her replace me.

I am the one with a soul.

I do like her though.

She’s refreshingly friendly

and she’ not American.

I think it’s kind of cool

that she’s rather sweet and Chinese

but I write my poems alone.