the time i burnt the rice to the pan-
just that's poetry.
worth more than the thousands
of lame mumblings
and misplaced commas.
a poem of the enigmatic yet palatable
mechanisms of
every day life.
a poem no one appreciates
without eroticism
or brash excitement.
just sorting laundry
and the metamorphosis into
clean lime cloth
folded and wrinkle free.
that's the only poem i'll ever truly know.
and while i sometimes strive for those
three legged mutts with their
sputtering symphonic twilight-hour
(well into midnight) rhythms,
the only poem for me
is one that walks upright,
exhales quietly,
flips through the pages of a book
and calls it a night.
