We are all poets; when words come quick, shaolin blades slicing pixels in angry, poetic kung-fu; when words come smooth and slow in fleeting, awkward caresses pulsating across goose-bumped skin, every new lover a poem.
When we sway on the barstool, flag poles resisting *****’s steady gale, arguing for that one last drink before the white light cuts through the swaddling shadows and the barkeep sees the reds of our eyes, every slurring plea a poem.
When we beg the officer to let us go gently into freedom’s violet dawn and when unsuccessful, to crack the back window of his cruiser just enough to keep the world from spilling in, spinning into violent oblivion, every handcuffed squirm a poem.
We are all poets; when both heart and home sputter, energy from a rusting machine crawling from check to check until chair becomes wheelchair, house becomes apartment, fruits of past labor line the curb in piles of bags, every unpaid bill a poem.
When we stare out over the water, rolling sheets of morning fog across the lake, still, except for ripples of dew drops painting the water in widening circles; revived campfire crackling next to snug, sleeping children; quiet, like a poem’s end.