I wish I could prevent words from leaping
Out of my mouth,
Stop thinking aloud.
He steals all the stories-
They trickle down,
Drop by drop.
Every word has a different taste,
Every word has a different base.
I am not an expert in cooking and blending.
Sometimes I am afraid to try,
But I keep dreaming of shaping and bending.
Last month the kettle exploded and
The kitchen was on fire.
I am still cleaning up but the hole never fills.
I think about the mess every day.
The things I was supposed to say.
He looks at me
Sitting down, he says:
"I love poetry."
He takes everyone's stories.
The miseries and the glories.
But there is nothing I can do about it.
I am too fascinated with his own.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.