I just stepped on one this morning,
wasn’t looking where I was going.
Ran into tree-
the last remaining old growth.
Or was it that I was only
looking where I was going?
That’s a good way to miss where you need to go.
One jumped out at me on the bus
and from the eviction signs at Here There
on the border
singing, “just let me live!”
I tipped my coffee cup and found
one clinging to the rim,
asking for a drink.
so addicted, these poems are
to being heard.
that they’ll even drop in on your conversation
with a friend
and interject their opinion, whether you want it or not:
and shout at you for a 3 AM feeding.
“What’s so important that it can’t wait until morning, like a reasonable person?” I ask.
It responds, “I’ll tell you, how much time you got?”
“Ok, OK! I’m all ears,”
It starts reciting before I can get even in a yawn.
Turns out it’s just something about life and death and love and rabbits and nostalgia
and moon and grandfathers and imprisoned people and bows and arrows
and pain and plastic shit-bags and teachers and wind
and fear and dancing and watersheds
and eagles and reciprocity
I go back to sleep,
but I can feel the lumps of poems
lurking in my pillow.
They’ll just have to wait until morning, I think.
But dawn arrives, and they’re no longer here.
Oh well, the poems hiding in the sky and mud and streets await.