Where Is the Poetry?
The poetry is inside your melanin-infused cells, or
Is it inside your chromosomes, as they are being reimagined
By the serotonin chemicals that spark misfires in your brain?
Where is this poetry of which they speak?
Is it somehow carried on the wings of your soul, and
What is this soul? Is the soul a creation of poetry? Or vice versa?
Is poetry a retelling of your past? A restructure of your present?
Is poetry the streaks of rain against the window
Of some untold as-yet-to-be-imagined future?
Maybe it is the rhythm of your blood pushed through veins
By a heart that is powered by impulses from the music
That flows into your ears and your fingertips through the world’s speakers.
Maybe poetry is a flick of the wrist, a lash of the eye,
Maybe it is every hello and goodbye
Maybe it is the waking up or the sitting down, or the smooth recline.
Perhaps poetry is nothing at all
Perhaps is only the collection of various word scraps,
Brought together in a discordant order by your chimpanzee hands on a typewriter.