The Art of Poetry

Photo by Jené Stephaniuk on Unsplash 

There’s a ladder in my bedroom for six months, because
six months ago I was going to paint. Or maybe
there’s nothing to it. You trip, and it’s a Jackson Pollock.
You trip and it’s Thelonious Monk. Monk and Pollock,
who knew? So close, but look how much closer
one can still get. Tripping over what, for instance. “Yes,”
what answers. I’m overpowered by imagining this feather.
I’m overpowered by these life lessons through macaroni.
There’s glue all over my fingers, like science mixed
with snot. And what is there to say other than “ugh,”
at the room of your past loves? They’re having
expensive champagne they put on your hotel bill.
They’re talking to each other, passing around
your secret diary. The one so secret you didn’t even know.

*

The fight between the parents is visited upon the child.
Glib fantasia. I pretend I don’t want to control anything.
It’s my version of control. No, we’re just talking,
I pretend. A key component of control is pretending.
The possum plays dead at the end of the block.
Maybe it’s really dead. Then it’s gone. Maybe something
ate it. We play dead at work. We’re practicing. Power
makes rules to keep things tidy. When you have no power,
you have to sparkle or pass notes. This one says,
“Don’t anthropomorphize the rich.”
This is a version of sparkle. You’re sure you’re in love.
All bets are off. It’s easy to be a monster.
This is the end of the second parable.
There is a dark room behind you.