WHAT MAKES A POEM
(with a backspace that
obliterates like a street-legal semi-
automatic set on automatic) ,
I've already deleted more poems than you've
Ever written, all in favor of this of questionable
Merit (my usual half-effort that gets me through) ,
I'll always have that one over
You though, the brilliance of those deletions.
They were stunning work--
Images for the ages and words
No one dreamed should combine
And insights men could lust over.
(you must take my word for it
and because you think I'm your friend
you probably will)
I spent all of last week trying
To figure out something else about life,
Maybe a poem's worth or a story's or a novel's,
But that entire week, I only learned one thing--
About one person in one situation on one day
From one action and nothing
That was ever said. (it was like finally troubling
To pick a rock and do what it took
to see it) Inside that study I saw this:
We don't trust the people that we trust.
It shouldn't make any sense,
Should invite a derisive chuckle,
But once said aloud,
( in second person not first plural )
I couldn't delete the trouble it will cause,
And only that is why this is a poem.