the last time
you held the warm weight
of a nickel
in your hand—and really thought
anything of it.
anything of it.
Picture—being presented
with a polished, single
Granny Smith apple
as your Christmas present
by somebody
who really meant it.
A short poem
is a little like that.
It's like an angel—not a
real angel (the kind that
real people
would believe in) but one of those
would believe in) but one of those
cute concrete statues of one:
not great—but at least it won't
stir any more hate.
Not super
well-defined, either—except that it
well-defined, either—except that it
definitely couldn't hurt.
