Poetry — what an objectively
disagreed upon reality, filled to overflow
with such things like fringe combs
and metallic tea jugs. Best now
to bring it to a boil, to set on
the balcony railing and let seep
into sun tea. The poet relines
on a laced blue towel
tucking her bare knees tight up underneath her
and chewing on the breeze that lifts
the staleness and calls for a head count.
It’s the notorious age of the golden dog
when all can be lost on a freshly
mowed lawn and a barrel-full
won’t get you anywhere anymore.