Poetry Is

Poetry is life.
Poetry is rays of light on a cloudy day,
Oxygen,
The true vocal cord.
Poetry is the bits of food stuck in your esophagus,
Funnel cake,
A pleasant mirage,
The most beautiful distraction.
Poetry is my dying words,
Life’s ingredients label,
Tylenol.
It is wisdom,
A lighthouse,
A path,
Paint,
Or perhaps it’s the canvas.
Poetry is comfortable,
An expanding room,
A counselor.
Poetry is the dialogue of pigeons,
The overflow of the heart.
Poetry is the conversation between two nurses as they ease their patient off of life-support.
Poetry is the robin guarding her nest,
The dog barking at a treed squirrel,
The lovesong of fallen leaves.
Poetry is the lost tennis shoe on the side of the road,
And empty chair,
The cursive T,
The smell of freshly baked cookies.
Poetry is hip-hop,
Rap,
R&B,
But mostly Polka.
Poetry is the unfurled rose,
The quiet basement,
The wrinkles of a raisin.
Poetry is an orange spray-tan,
Antique lampshade,
The full junk-drawer.
It’s a white-washed fence,
The record player,
Lint in you blue-jean pockets.
Poetry is everything, everything.
Everything but words.