Poet’s Mind

from Out With Lanterns, a daily poetry practice

No poet wants to hawk her poetry. 
She barely wants you to read her work.
It’s the inner workings of her mind, 
a place that makes little sense, even to her.
It’s a place where a thought about 
tennis is quickly followed by 
How weird are toes? which is 
followed with meandering wondering 
on why can’t she be different, more 
normal, successful, more mainstream,
like the mom who started a business
and sold it for millions. Or why 
she’s the kind of person who will
happily spend a day sorting screws
or bolts or nuts into clean piles 
and maybe she is autistic,
but then everyone’s somewhere
on the spectrum, aren’t they? And 
she read something about monks
and how they’re so revered 
for their quiet, hermit lifestyle.
But for her, it’s a crime to not reply
to a few texts for a couple hours
and she thinks maybe a monk’s life
would be better. Followed by, 
Wait, can women be monks? 
and then it’s back to toes and millions
or off to gardens and duvet covers, 
and she doesn’t want to hawk her poetry
but she likes that this verb is also 
a powerful bird of prey,
one that can see so far, 
one who sells nothing, 
one who watches from the sky, 
one whose toes have formidable claws.

Photo by Joe deSousa on Unsplash