A poem is not a decoration.
not an aromatic candle,
not a bauble or a trinket
not an ornament for the tree,
not a garland or a wreath.
A poem is not décor,
not a seascape over the couch,
not a window curtain curtailing the view,
nor a knickknack on a window sill.
not verbal sprinkles,
not icing on the cake,
not even the cake.
A poem is not a literary manikin,
not Frost’s two roads in a woods
your teacher told you to memorize,
or Shakespeare’s sonnet eighteen
comparing his love to a summer day.
A poem is not macaroni and cheese,
not salted and crispy fast food fries,
not a marshmallow flaming on a stick,
nor an anxious graham cracker.
A poem is not a throw pillow on a bed,
nor stuffed bear, or a duck, or a doll,
not a dancing puppy, batteries included,
not a pennant from Albuquerque
reminding you of your childhood visit.
A poem is not a lug wrench when your
tire blows thirty miles from town.
A poem is a stone held while diving,
taking you deeper than you want to go.
A poem is a surgeon’s knife
cutting out blindness.