Poetry of the Practical
Having spent more years
than I care to contemplate
on the absurd and maligned
endeavor of poetry,
I finally understand
what you relentless makers get
out of all of your knitting and stitching
and scrapping and brewing and broths.
As I’ve aged I’ve grown
enamored of the material.
Of what use is a poem?
These days my hands
are too restless for such a pursuit.
I want to form poems
I can hold in my palms and make use of.
I want to sew a skirt of a poem
that blooms like a flame when I twirl.
I want to make a silk bag of a poem
to tote home my onions and wine.
I want to crochet a long warm
scarf of a poem, with matching fingerless gloves.
I want to slow-cook a poem like a pot roast, and
serve it with beer and potatoes.
I want to paste up a poem like a scrapbook, all
Modge Podge and glitter and stamps.
As for the poems I’ve already written,
living their silent, ethereal lives,
may they fade away like the
pale and impermanent
ink they were conceived in.
These days I care only
for that which I can make use of.