my daughter long a-
go
gave me words for my
fridge.
the words are mag-
netic
and you scramble them a-
round to make
poems.
poems that don't rhyme but
neither does
a
heart.
poems that didn't get
writ-
ten
for 5
years.
they hung there,
empty on the
fridge,
without a happy poet to
compose.
the words thought about not moving to
georgia.
they thought about going to the
dumpster, along with
so many
other
bro-
ken
dreams.
but the words hopped in
my
car.
barrelled down the
high-
way. flew in
the
house. landed on
a
southern
fridge.
it's like they got
CPR or
somethin.
like i married a man who
may have been emerson in
a-
nother
life.
it's like the words wrote
them-
selves in his
heart,
onto
mine,
and the fridge is finally warm
a-
gain.
