My car is jealous of poetry
because it fills the garage.
Rickety card tables and milk crates
are covered with beakers, books
and Bunsen burners bubbling
away useless words.
My hands shake as I pour reagents,
mixing the smoothest line
and with mortar and pestle
compounding a slanty rhyme.
But some nights, after my white lab coat
is stained purple, the place explodes
in a brilliance that blows open the doors
of perception — and I sigh.
I’ve always wondered how many of you, my dear readers, actually read my poetry as opposed to just pressing the Like button in hopes of reciprocation. So consider this my experiment. If you’ve read the poem, do not Like this post. Feel free to leave a comment, if you feel so moved, but do not click Like.