Poetry is the parade
for the gorgeous rubble of memories
that is buried
day after day
by a fresh falling
of moments
so few cute or sad enough
to remember
like this morning
when your dad asked you
if every animal in the book
was a hippopotamus
and you laughed until
you ran out of breath
and announced
I’m having too much fun
we write them trophies
these flutters of time
we pin them up with words
we take their invisibleness
and make it immortal
this is what poetry is
not an observation of profound things
but the hooking
of what would otherwise
blow away.