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.