Buckets
Every poet
has a bucket,
yes a bucket,
and in each one
we carry trash
junk litter waste
scrap, anything
and everything
we’ve ever found.
No one wants it.
You cannot help
that you want it.
Sit on the ground
stir its contents
crumpled, dirty,
still, something shines.
Mold the pieces
polished, pristine,
and it’s all yours.
No one wants it.
But you want it.
Keep wanting it,
keep changing it,
say the word “trash”
over, again,
listen until…
it lost meaning.
Such a bucket
will not whisper.
They can’t whisper—
Shh! It’s singing!
Do not spill it,
do not hate it,
defile, reject,
or compare it.
Close your ears to
bucket-bashers.
We are not all
meant for buckets.
Unlucky ones.
The bucketless.
Share you buckets!
Share their figures!
They’re ready now.
Fame? uncommon.
Glory? Hardly.
Revenge? Perhaps.
But joy? Always.
Keep happiness
in your bucket.
Pity those with
flat, fumbling hands
that carry naught.
Share your buckets,
and spread your joys!
They want it now.
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