She leaves poems all over the place
like dirty socks.
Words worn for a minute and rolled off into a wad in the hall,
under the bed,
in an imaginary New York apartment with wood floors,
but this is just Phoenix
and the fucking heat will burn a hole in your soul
like the words you want the world to hear,
but instead just sit on an unread unfollowed unsubscribed blog
without anyone–not even your mother
ever laying eyes on them.
sits in her white suburb at the kitchen table scarred by the
careless hands of children, and she stares
at the wall thinking
about how to put these words into some sort of meal
that makes people devour them and sit back with full bellies
savoring the juiciness.
She is just making poems from a box, ordering takeout
phrases that just do not satisfy.
used to be part of family dinner and even though it wasn’t New York,
the poems didn’t matter anymore. She was full.
And now, she is alone in a room full of people
and the words matter to no one else
but fill up the moment, the day, the life
for they are all