My brain is a poetry brain

I like where it goes

not hung from the better boughs of nonfiction

not tumbling through the short story whippoorwills

but upside down curled up then calico stretch on the

sun deck of poetry

the words float

hairs on the oily top of my coffee cup

beans from a farm in San Ignacio

freshly roasted, brewed on science scales grams, grounds

gravity, my close friend pulls the juice

I pour the cups equal to

sit in a poem and pick words off the top

calico, tabby, tuxedo, black.

I like where it goes.

I like what floats.