Poem of a Poem
The poem is sitting on your fingertips
And dancing around your lifelines.
It is hiding in the moonlit tombstones
Daring you to catch it
As it reappears in the broken cement of the backyard,
Until you trap it in the stalks of the plants
And make it green.
The poem’s in the broken glass and grass near the graveyard
In the shiny regularity of the bottles at the mini mart.
You can hear it in your neighbor’s argument
And sync it to the rumble of the trains.
The train tracks that just yesterday,
Oozed a puddle of red into the cement below:
The legacy of a woman in despair.
Hear the eulogy they give her an hour later
As the trains start again.
It’s in the walk across the street
To that shadowy porch.
Whisper it into the winds and
Let it fly past the telephone lines
Into the dotted fabric of the sky.
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