Guessing Games

Sometimes a poet
will look at you
through the grave
of all the poems,
and smile and ask,
Have you guessed
my secret yet?
And the poet is not
speaking of the part
of the poems which
are like a toilet
which won't stop running,
(even Shakespeare springs
annoying leaks, sometimes)
but rather the part
which is like my cat
curled asleep on my bed
just now, where I was
asleep a few minutes
before. And he comes
to rest in my warmth,
our warmth which is
a fading fingerprint
on the universe, funny!
Oh, right. The Secret.
I won't tell you that!
(I'm in the Secret Service.)
Now about the running toilet,
just jiggle the handle
and it will probably stop.
Unless it is a particularly
prolific poet like an ant farm.

Then I'm afraid you're on your own.