Poetry Anymore

I don’t write poetry anymore

I wonder why and
without thinking know that it’s because

my life is the opposite
of poetry

I don’t have time to
ponder to
wonder to
see the world in resounding metaphors
and clever imagery
that makes people
calmly smile into their tea
or tap their fingers gently on their chins

Most of my pens are 

out of 

ink
or in that cupboard with the oatmeal and rice
because they fell out the back of the
crammed-full junk drawer

My pencils have robots and aliens on them so I can't
take them seriously 

plus the lead is dull

And when I type it’s
grocery lists and obscure queries:
“What does a pinworm look like?”
“How long does it take to thaw a turkey?”

The most poetic thing I’ve heard in days is
our balcony wind chime singing now
in the silent, sleeping evening
when my thoughts are palpable and come in
complete sentences with periods and everything

not interrupted by
burning chicken nuggets,
splattering paint,
poop explosions in

diapers
pants
toilets
floors
floors by toilets

These delicious evenings when I’m
too tired

to
write poems so I
read I
watch baseball I
do dishes
and neglect my True Love—

Writing

No wonder I don’t write poetry anymore
I never notice it