An Ars Poetica

He bade them sit and watch from cozy chairs.
Rabbit, he said, and there it was, a jugged
Hare, for the coarse of palate. He said, Sun!
And into the room his kid slouched. "What up, Pops?"
This isn't a piece of cake, he told them. There,
Right on the rug, synthetic, hard as brass,
A slice of apricot pie declared itself.
Poets do magic. What they want is sense,
He said. A copper spray of pennies sailed
Lustily round the room, harboring on
The children's shoulders. Not no other word,
The poet shouted: ungrammatically,
Their room, and all and everyone, was gone,
And he alone was left to tell some tale.