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.