A Sort of Mental Squint on Hope Street

A poem is a plank,
it’s tough
and sexy,
an earmuff.

You can fly through the air,
or dig a hole with it.
See things that never were.

You can think or swim with it,
be sick or thin with it.

It’s a snake
slithering through your mind,
or a cheetah running like the wind.

It’s a Fire
Work
Air
Craft
Earth
Worm
Water
Buffalo
A maiden
Ant
A gigolo.

Once dreamed it’ll never go away.
You can’t burn or bury it;
it won’t fall apart,
or rot
because you’ve used it too much,
or not.

It won’t grow sad
when locked away for years;
a poem knows how to smile,
it knows no fears.

It will always be there
never being a has been;
an unforgettable memory
always has been.