Over tea we wonder why we write poetry.
Ten people read it, anyway.
Three are committed in advance
to disliking it.
Three feel a vague pang
but have leaking taps and traffic jams
to think about.
Two like it
and wouldn’t mind telling you so,
but don’t know how.
Another is busy preparing questions
about pat ironies
and identity politics.
The tenth is wondering
whether you wear contact lenses.
And we,
as soiled as anyone else
in a world addicted
to carbohydrates
and conversations without pauses,
still groping
among sunsets and line lengths
and slivers of hope
for a moment
unstained
by the wild contagion
of habit.