The commuter rail passes at night.
I don’t need to see because I know:
these trains don’t rattle my bones.
I teach poetry to little ones.
They favor the slant rhyme
& fake words for all of time.
A girl asked me: what makes a poem?
Look, a single word might do
or a slew/ of them together.
All it takes is recollection
and the right environment.
Any thought can be hell-bent.
A boy told me his favorite word.
Long-winded but meaning ‘immediately.’
Spoken words, another said so,
after you get mad, you get sad.
So succinct and self-contained.
Human nature is not sight.
We exist to envision ourselves
as works in perpetual progress.
Home runs not out of the park,
but oddly within the walls
and still somehow out of reach.