Not Much of a Poem

Why does every poet have a poem

called “poem,” and why do empty bottles

seem more poetic than anything

I ever called a “poem”? 

Metaphorical drowning a joy

like a first drink on a Friday night,

but also the sort of death that feels as if it should rhyme.

On my best mornings, I’m a puddle

in love with its own evaporation,

while the sun writes a ‘Dear John’ letter

all over my closed eyes.

SAD

Winter nights the colour of whisky

because it’s better than darkness

telling the same story about shortening days and snow

clean as a funeral shroud.

Happiness an empty glass,

while blacked out laughter

better than another evening

remembering there’s less and less light

and how my bed is inviting like a grave.

Background Noise

Better than silence,

and even if it doesn’t know

my name and can never learn it,

it welcomes me and this poem home,

along with so many others

who believe they’re louder

than they are.