I could write a poem about spilled milk.
How one neglectful elbow movement can
Send a glass over the table’s edge, to shatter
Into a thousand slivers and shards upon
The linoleum floor. How the milk poured
From the wound like blood from a
Disemboweled samurai. I understand the poem
Could be written by the poet as means
To come to terms with the disappointment over spilling milk.
Really, I do comprehend the healing power of poetry;
Except there’s nothing profound about being
On hands and knees wiping up moo juice with a dirty rag.
Then again, there is no law that says poems must be erudite.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen