Poetry Smokes

Because there’s no money in poetry

She sits on the back deck

Smoking a cigarette that

Can not kill her.

Wondering what bit jobs

Her sister Exposition

Will throw her way.

Exposition tries to be kind to her

Saying how she appreciates

Her insightfulness

That she knows

Exactly how to say

Something

But she doesn’t think that

Exposition really groks

What goes on in

Her own self.

That willingness to follow the smoke

Up into the sky and not be

Earthbound and not have to have

Subject, Verb, Object and not have to worry about

Mixed metaphors

She liked mixing metaphors

She liked swimming with the fish in the ocean

And then climbing a tree

With gusto and bravery.

And then falling into the sky

Winding up on Mars

And then flying

Into the earth

And digging

Her own grave

But she can’t stay in her grave

She can dig it

She can dig down

Commune with the worms

The bugs, the microbes, the dirt

Talk with the rocks

But then she will emerge

With the grass

With the people, with the horses, the dogs, the cats

The wildebeests

And run with the wolves

Because she can use cliche

Exposition can’t