Whoever brought me will have to take me home

From somewhere I have copied down:

Is there anything but but?

I did not copy this down.

This poetry.  I never know what I'm going to say.

I will not say anything about winter.

I will say "Write a poem about finding an avocado on a train."

An avocado!  On a train!

I will say "Write a poem about crayons up noses."

About whether to stand up or sit down when—

You know I agree with it all.

Like paprika.  This is something true.

It is anything but but.  A fucking avocado.

There's no winter in that.