“Write any new poems?” “Several.” “Any good?” This was an ongoing conversation between York and Boomer. The old elf seemed to think all poetry was without merit. Still, the ribbing was good-natured, and York pretended to enjoy it. He’d like to think it was something he really would enjoy, if things had turned out differently. He played along. “All my poetry is good, Boomer.” “Well, I have a poem for you, my mantis friend. It’s based on the style of a popular Earth poem.” “I am not a mantis. But that is of interest to me. I have been reading of those as well and have been attempting different
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