The words we use are sharp,
are functional, are bold,
are defined, are clean, are
double-edged.
We are no poets after all.
I could tell because from the window
of a late-night cab, the world is really simple.
The lights on the boulevard are bright,
are incandescent, are electric-powered.
The music oozing from the stereo
is trance, is techno, is rock, is jazz,
is new-wave, is rap-metal.
I could tell because the way we are
is the way a day drives by today, tomorrow,
and the random spaces in between.
We are masters of the mundane—
politics and a can of beer on a Wednesday.
We move as though on a chessboard
with movements that are intricate as clockwork,
that are cock-sure, that are exact.
By this time, you should know
that while we put ourselves in clean,
little defined boxes of thought,
wield words honed for the steal
and the kill, I watch your fingers jumping
on the typewriter keys. Your eyebrows knitted,
I feel your mind racing. Words sound like rain
when they drum as the clock ticks, as they flood,
until the storm is spent and there is another
story for another day.
By this time,
You should know,
You should know,
All you give me is poetry.
