Poetry is like
reaching for a box on the top shelf.
My hand stumbles around, blind, and
knocking over cereal boxes. A can
rolls and drops on my foot. My hand
finds nothing and my arm gets sore.
I leave, returning the next day
Hoping that I will finally stretch
to the top of the shelf. But more cans
spill over. The wrong boxes tumble off the shelf.
I try to not whine or grumble
but I can never reach that one perfect box.
Eventually I just have to jump
and trust that my hand will grasp it.
It tips off the shelf – nearly slips out of my hand,
but at the last possible second, the box is secured.
Once I finally hold it in my hands, I can open it and eat.
The hunger goes away.