Living Inside the Poem

No one told me 
what a poem really was 
until I heard a woman 
say in an interview: We 
are all living inside a poem. 
I thought then of the poem
of my early morning: 
the tiny bit of salt 
sprinkled on an egg
as it fried in the pan 
after I broke the white-
walled fortress where
it kept a little sun  
captive. And I thought 
of the poem of midday,
a window straining to open
after months of being shut, 
but whose wooden frame 
now shrinks from the cold.
The poem of the world
inside the radio crackled
with news of ice storms,
and people on the road 
huddled together all night
researching every pocket
of warmth to be found.
In another poem, a man
was bringing his wife
home from the hospital.
Fish in ponds looked up 
every now and then 
at the frozen ceiling, 
before moving back 
into their blue-
speckled rooms.

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