The Kids Are Home

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 The Kids Are Home


Some days just feel 

like a poem. You don’t

write one because 

another one is too

busy lighting up your 

day, because your 

keenly aware of being

made of more than blood

sweat, and bone. Because

each and every smile and embrace

even the smells are made

more brilliant by their momentary 

passing. Some days you go to 

sleep with poetry between 

your legs and on your arm

and in your ear and as

you peel yourself away

so as not to wake

any sleeping beauties

to crawl into your own bed,

and that’s when the thought 

’but you haven’t

written your poem yet!’

rests in a furtive

curve on your lips

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