Poetry is in the eyes, gazing

into open air, dazed

and perplexed by the vastness of

nothing.

Damp water trickling down wet steps in fall.

The sun hasn’t risen yet but I rise to make it breakfast.

If I don’t care, then who will?

Every star in the early morning sky needs a meal,

not a crumb, at least some toast.

I begin to ponder, flipping eggs, who would take care of me

if I were as helpless as a star

lost in the cosmos.

Snapped out of thought by burning toast

I make my rounds and

take my breakfast outside to share

with the galaxy of hunger staring down at me.

Poetry is in emotion, thought up between meals

licked off the plate,

recycled.

All the same words and foods will meet the plate for dinner,

it just depends on how you like the taste.