Maybe my poems aren’t poems.
Cities that brace themselves for impact. Each day one day away from total destruction.
Maybe my words aren’t words.
Globs of chewed gum that grip to the bottom of your sole and lodge themselves between your treads.
I’m not a poet. It’s not a hat I wear at parties, flitting from conversation to hesitation, notebook in hand.
It’s the thing I find in bed at night. The wine still on me like so many fingertips.
It’s the thing I wake up to, pounding at my temples. Pretending like
I’m getting too old for this shit.
So you tell me to write. And I’m like “Right.” Write what?
Right the things that have long toppled? Regencies. Democracies. Hypocrisies.
That time you told me you’d catch me
but hands are just hands. Arms are just arms.
Things we say are just
all those things we said.