Poetry doesn't
            have  to rhyme, it just
     has  to  touch  someone where
            your hands couldn't.

                 A poem begins
          a  lump  in  my  throat, a
                   sense of what's
                           wrong,
                      what's right.
                 A homesickness. A  
                       love sickness.

                       Why poetry?
               I  am  asked,  I  answer,
                   "because of life."

                      I don't want
                 just words from you,
                     the one who is
             supposedly  the  center
                        of my world.
              If  that's  all  you  have  
                           for me,
                     you'd  better  go.
          We whisper lies to ourselves
               and forget that reality
                   is a light sleeper.
                                                                                        Jon York   2019