Not all things
said by poets
are poems.
We order
pizzas, wings,
beer. We pray
stale prayers that
barely pulse with
longing, rage
impotently, curse
in traffic. Those words
aren’t poems,
though we may be bent
toward seasoning them
as if they were. All
the more reason
for the few poems
we do get to write
to be full of us
at our best.
It simply will not do
for us to fail. Those
fluent curses and
florid grocery lists
should prepare us
for those times when
the breath we spend
might be a last breath.