I keep wondering, what is poetry? Why do I even think about stuff like this? Do you know?
I can't say.
It comes and it goes.
You grab hold and it doesn't let go.
A friend mailed me a big, doorstopper of a book. It was a collection of Emily D's poetry (we're on a first name basis).
It was good day to get a book like that in the mail. It was a Friday and had been doozy of a day. I was poured out, and wasted from a week of too much give. I just wanted to feel safe and recoil in my own four walls.

So in the middle of the day, I poured myself a bubble bath and gathered Emily from her mailer. I read her and she read back to me while lounging in my bubble bath at 3:30 in the afternoon.
I realized after I had submerged myself neck deep in bubbles that I didn't have a towel to dry off with for when the time would come. And it does come. I got out of the lukewarm water and collected a clean towel from all the way down in the laundry room.

On my way back upstairs, I couldn't help but notice all the wet, bubbly poems across my amber wood floor.