They peel poetry
off the walls in strips
of wallpaper,
curled and yellow.
They snort lines
of poetry with
noses like slugs,
trailing mucus behind.
Their problem is that
happiness is too thin.
It floats like a ribbon,
and can be breathed in
unnoticeably
as air.
Sadness is
much more
tangible.
Sadness is
thick soup
oozing over you,
thick enough to
lift up and fashion
a noose out of
before it ever slips
from your fingers.
But those who
find themselves to be
a helpless pea
in the midst of that
sorrowful soup
must not sink
their pens like anchors
just to keep floating.
No, they must
untether that pen
from the counter of
the bank teller’s window
where grievances
can be cashed in
like checks,
and instead
raise it skyward
as the mast of a sail.