Wordly

       

I would tell you that I am an open
book, but that would be a lie -
because my pages are not bound
and numbered with coffee rim stains

**

I am the child’s lullaby, and the
tantrum cry during a time-out

 

I am the bathroom stall poetry,
written in permanent marker

 

I am the I love you’s that
follow after long nights, and fights

 

I am the unwanted newspaper near
the curb, left to rot and decay in the rain

 

I am the cookbook recipes forgotten
in the attic of the dead aunt’s house;

I am the crumbled words coming
from an elderly woman’s lips, who
drinks tea every evening at five pm