Sometimes I'm sentimental. Which, must seem
like a giant lie to most who know me, but I
promise it's true. It's just, sometimes,
unfeeling is less embarrassing and tedious.

But black ink on a bar napkin, with a bumpy ring from a
bottle, a can, a glass, isn't poetry. Black, synthetic,
eyelashes, and clicking computer keyboards aren't poetry.
Bubbles in paint, dirty shoe prints on the kitchen floor,
and broken cameras aren't poetry. Dead batteries, shopping
carts, squeaky hinges, and exposed electrical wires aren't
poetry. Headlights, paper clips, burnt wood in an old fire
place, the phone ringing incessantly, and
bad hair cuts aren't poetry.

I'm not poetry, and neither are you.