The following is a short story inspired from the first line of the poem Valentine for Ernest Mann by Naomi Shihab Nye.

You can't order a poem like you order a taco. I know from experience that this is true. It was April. Cold and hungry I made a run for the border. On the radio, the DJ was making a strange announcement.

"That was Little Chainsaws by Exposed Eyeball. You're listening to KEWL, kewl radio all the time. This just in: it's National Poetry Month! Have yourself a poem, why don't ya? Go on, have one!"

I turned him off. I wasn't very interested in his bizarre antics, though I was intrigued by the notion of a National Poetry month. As I pulled up to the large, obnoxious menu board outside of Taco Bell, I tried to focus my mind on the task at hand.

"Welcome to Taco Bell, can I take your order?"

"Yes, I'd like to hear Allen Ginsberg's Howl please." Apparently, my mind was otherwise focused. The voice at the other end was unimpressed and silent. "Hello?" I asked.

"I'm sorry sir, but we seem to be all out of Howl today."

A wiseguy, eh? Very well, I thought. I'd continue to play along. "How about a Shakespearean sonnet then?"

"No."

"Walt Whitman?"

"Sorry."

"Keats?"

"Not today sir."

"E.E. Cummings?"

"cert-Ainly !nOt!"

My stomach rumbled. I gave up the game. "All right, just gimme a Chalupa."