Poetry is not the be-all or end-all.
I cannot compare it to either
an orgasm or ahot cup of tea.
Poetry is ignoring me.
Poetry doesn't wait for me
whileI dart into the supermarket.
Poetry's stoner cap
is pulled down
overplucked eyebrows.
Poetry smells like
someone else's comfort food
andtastes (much later)
like the pillow in a Canadian hotel.
But I follow youhome (sweetheart)
because you've got the mystique
I've been trying for allthese years.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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