2021-08-31T19:38:06-07:00January 3rd, 2011|Creativity|

I am a poet

Rushing home,
I’m late.
I punch at the radio
but the static gets louder.

At the fourth red light,
I stuff a ginger snap into my mouth
and I remember
that I am a poet,
a poet running late
and my baby is screaming to be fed.

Are you kidding me?

Another red light
and I wonder if babies hold grudges
but I am still
a poet.

And then I remember
to notice
that ginger snaps
taste like fire
dancing on my tongue.

It reminds me of the time
I made my mother tea on her birthday
out of lemonade and tobasco.

I was six
and she kissed both of my cheeks
and drank the whole pot.

I realize,
with a long loose breath,
as my baby cries louder
from the backseat,
is one half
the word

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