Work Poem PAD April 9th, 2015

How does a poem work? she asked, doodling

on her notebook cover, the only child of divorced

parents, three point seven five average, hung over

from Thursday night’s three dollar margaritas.

It works on a farm, as the Allis Chalmers combine

traces rows in loamy soil, a blackbird eying the dirt

for unearthed worms under a tattered gray sky.

It works in the hands of a stone mason, squeezing

a pastry bag of mortar between rocks to decorate

concrete walls as precisely as a baker who pipes

pink rosettes on a pale buttercream palette.

It works in a bomber, dropping the end or the start

of a conflict, saving or extinguishing freedom

of citizens whose descendants wear paper poppies

or purple hearts and white crosses face East.

It works when the sunlight sprays the floor

with eyelet graffiti that moves as the spray

can empties its paint throughout the morning.

It works in the foam of espresso, the crema

a bitter swirl on the tongue, a kiss that slides

and dissolves into words that preserve it.

“Oh, just wondering,” she said, flipping her hair.

Kim King © 2015

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About k2king

Poeming to save myself
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