When One Word Is Written


When one word is written but you read it as another,
Sat between the pages bounded by the cover,
There lives the book imp, a creature like no other.

She delights in deception of the unwary reader,
Hiding between the lines where the eye cannot see her;
A literally invisible literary deceiver.

As the author's meaning is made uncertain
The literate cede to the imp's coercion.
The considerate see too the ink's inertion

And curse their failure in comprehension,
Unknowing of the fairy's unwanted attention.
Unfairly made to reread the lines before them,

All the while confounded by the imp's interference.
Even when you think to avoid her appearance,
Never doubt that creature's perseverance.

Even now these words betray,
She tricks, she fools, she leads ashtray.
Although you may suspect fowl play,

It is not I who misconstrues
This poem and the words I use.
Rather blame an impish ruse

When one word is mitten, but you read it as a mother.

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