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."
I call this a poem. That is all. Oh, wait. And I like it a lot.
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