Poetry is having 26
letters at your disposal
to say everything,
or at least something.

Poetry is two lovers
under covers,
telling each other
things they’ve never
said out loud before. 

Poetry is finding
faded money
in the pocket of
your coat from winter,
and then misbuttoning
your coat on accident,
and then rebuttoning
it on purpose.

Poetry is collaged bits
of conversations
and weird visuals
that refuse to unstick
from your thoughts.

Like how that waitress
told you about her
awful waffles,

or when you saw
the construction sign above
the freeway entrance that read:
“NOBODY GETS HURT.” 

These things
wake you up from
your slumbers and
cut your showers short;
your hand spews forth
what you didn’t know
you knew, or what you
know too well, your hand
picking and choosing
variations of 26 letters
on the blank pages of
your moleskin notebook
because it would all
mean something later,
if not now.