Day 14: Unpoemed

Here's the thing: this isn't really a poem.  

Here's the other thing: this is my blog, and my poem, so I get to say what's going down...and tonight, I say this is as close as we're getting to a poem.  

There are things that are not poetic but can be poemed:

Earwigs.

Chapstick that melts in your purse.

The number of dead bugs collected in the light on my ceiling that I cannot remove.

The incessant barking of the dog next door.

And there are things that are poetic that cannot be poemed:

Your mother asking you to help take your grandfather's car.

Joint pain that radiates your body.

The raw hurt that comes when you read a person wrong --

or when you read them right, but hoped for more.

The aching wound that friendship leaves.

The ways our history lives in our bodies.

Feelings that float to the surface.

Looking for gratitude, and breathing only into the statement,

"I'm alive."