[ NaPo 2017 ] Poetry is not

the grand piano in a crate  
custom built to accommodate  
its awkward insect shape on stilted legs    
     
nor is it music eminating from within      
as a starving mouse hurries, scurries      
right to left to right across keys      
in search of a single crumb of cheese      
that may have fallen out of a great  
composer's mustache      
     
Poetry is when underneath that piano  
being hoisted up to a penthouse suite      
with ropes handled by a deliveryman  
who just polished off a bag of Cheetos      
walks a lover of the Ragtime classics        
gaily humming, stepping lively over      
sidewalk cracks ( so as not to break      
his poor mother's back )      
 
oblivious to what happens next