He sat as we tore him to pieces,
limb by limb; every sentence sound, lost thought, and errant period
became our subject, our purpose to change.
Critical words and suggested alterations sliced deep,
a pain was scribed on his taut winced mien, perspired.
I said nothing more, no more from me.
This was where their sticks and stones became surgical instruments, their say on his say, tools which cut to, with their subjective opines on art, on personality, on poetry.
I sat and said nothing,
until words came, “…any last suggestions?”
Then I spoke: I think your piece is good.