Poetry is an uncultivated field
With two gates,
And ten thousand farmers
Turning soil,
Planting seeds,
Using tons of fertilizer.
The weeding is endless,
The rows run in all directions,
Harvest is boutiful when tended.
It's environmentally friendly,
Ergo-perfect.
And there's a need
To keep the varmits out.
Let them prowl the perimeter,
Salivating.
Remember to shut the gate.

The first time
I saw you
You were just
A simple man
Walking across a parking lot
But
Something
Inside of me
Shifted
Moved
The way you moved
The way
Your weight
Shifted
I had to meet you
Get to know you
Maybe
I was too forceful
Maybe
I made it
Too obvious
But
I knew
I knew
You could be
Everything to me
My missing
Electron
The missing sun
In my universe
I will never forget
The first time
My heart
Blended with you
Sitting on your desk
In your studio
You big brave
Man, you
Screaming
And terminating
Varmits for me
But
I don’t believe I was enough
For you
;
Not then
Trying to keep me
In the closet
Like a
Secret project
Attending parties
After our dinner date
You
Telling me
“We’re not together at this party”
My first
Broken heart
Like a dinner
Plate
Crashing to the
Floor
I’ve seemed to have
A piece of it
Lodged in my foot
It’s healed in there
But, sometimes
When I step wrong
It hurts,
Throbs
And I see
Your face,
Your form
Crossing the parking lot……

I'm stuck there in some anonymous dilapidated chicken coup.
Rotten boards and peeling paint.
Vermin taking up residence in some dusty stuffy run down shack.
As the fields of wheat blow in my imagination.
Cause out here there's just tall grass.
And mummified corpses of varmits.
Skulls you're proud to find.
And some city boys getting tired of the spear grass.

And here I am in some nostalgic memory.
Driving tractors with my grandpa.
Playing in combines.
The smell of gasoline.
The wind knocking something against the wall.

I hope this dying memory collapses on me.
So I can forget it was so.
Long ago.