domesticity

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.