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