Poetry Thrives

Poetry thrives in the ache behind my eyes
after a day of sweeping,
weeping at the rhythm of each new song on the playlist.

Poetry bathes in the brassy bubbles of a concert hall,
eating up alto voices, healthy and raw;
Sporadic, unexplained static–
Poetry is trusting a feeling and betting it all.

My poetry pays rent in a pop-up tent
under a busy overpass,
growing like marram grass by a brackish sea.
It dwells in the mosaic empty spaces left behind
by winter’s nudest trees.

Poetry thrives in the battle cries;
a canvas for people repressed.
After a famous shower,
poetry is horny and undressed.

Poetry panhandles on street corners;
breaks rigid rules;
defies every dictatorial threat.

It bikes further than fantasy
and flicks its finger without regret.
My poetry always drinks another cup;
poetry likes it dirty and rough.

Poetry sticks, and pricks, and lasts.

It sets sail without destination,
on the ship of life, poetry’s the mast.

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