Sometimes ideas for poems surface while I’m doing a perfectly ordinary thing in a perfectly ordinary place. Here’s an example: I was sitting in a restaurant in El Paso, Texas, having a quiet dinner by myself, when I became aware of a disturbance at the next table. A little boy about four years old was very angry about something, I don’t know what, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs. Also, he was taking his rage out on his teddy bear. He was twisting it; he was biting its nose; he was biting its eyes; he was banging it on the table; he was trying to tear out its stuffing. He was jabbing it with his fork! He was absolutely inconsolable and continued doing as much damage to his teddy bear as he possibly could.
As I watched him, it reminded me of my own teddy bear, which I loved when I was a little boy. It also reminded me of how I used to knock it around and twist it when I was upset. I don’t know why I took out my anger on my innocent teddy bear, but I did. I suspect that lots of kids do.
When I was about six years old, my teddy bear suddenly disappeared. I asked my mother about it, but she pretended not to know. Many years later I discovered that she’d given it to my cousin, who was a few years younger than I was. Many years after that, I learned that when he was in the air force, he kept that teddy bear in the cockpit of his plane as a good-luck charm. I’d like to have my teddy bear back, but he won’t give it to me.
On the basis of that experience in the restaurant, I wrote a poem called “Oh, Teddy Bear.” Here it is: 
Oh, Teddy Bear
Oh, Teddy Bear, dear Teddy,
though you’re gone these many years,
I recall with deep affection
how I nibbled on your ears,
I can hardly keep from smiling,
and my heart beats fast and glows,
when I think about the morning
when I twisted off your nose.
Teddy Bear, you didn’t whimper,
Teddy Bear, you didn’t pout,
when I reached in with my fingers
and I tore your tummy out,
and you didn’t even mumble
or emit the faintest cries,
when I pulled your little paws off,
when I bit your button eyes.
Yes, you sat beside me calmly,
and you didn’t once protest,
when I ripped apart the stuffing
that was packed inside your chest,
and you didn’t seem to notice
when I yanked out all your hair—
it’s been ages since I’ve seen you,
but I miss you, Teddy Bear.
I’ve shared this poem with thousands and thousands of kids in schools all over the United States and in other countries. Then I’ve asked them to tell me what they did to their own teddy bears or other favorite stuffed toys. I’ve gotten the most remarkable answers, many of which I never would have thought of myself. One little boy said, “I gave my teddy bear a haircut. I thought it would grow back, but I was wrong.” A little girl outdid him when she said, “I shaved my teddy bear with shaving cream and my father’s electric razor.” I’ve discovered that a lot of kids have cooked their teddy bears. Boys and girls have told me that they’ve steamed their bears, fried their bears, baked their bears, and boiled their bears. One of my favorites is the boy who told me in a rich Southern drawl, “Ah barbecued mah bear.”
I especially remember one boy who had a sort of squeaky voice. He said, “When I was little, I had just learned to flush the toilet. I was so proud. I wanted to show my teddy bear that I knew how to flush the toilet, so I took him with me into the bathroom and said, ‘Look, teddy bear, I can flush the toilet.’ But I accidentally dropped him in. There was nothing I could do. I never saw my teddy bear again.”
