Poetry Is Somebody Writing

Poetry is somebody writing About soft rotting peaches, Lying on a table that's missing a leg In a deserted cottage somewhere, With ermine curtains. And Poetry is someone explaining That the poem holds promise of great beauty, In the seeds of the peaches, Even if they are over-ripe; And even if the curtains are poorly matched. And Poetry is someone else arguing That the poem is about avarice And wasted opportunity In a post-modern world. And Poetry is somebody else saying A poem is just a still life Made out of nothing in particular, And thus can't be assigned relative values. And Poetry is the child, Falling asleep on the table Holding a poem book open, Pressed against his cheek, And dreaming of ermine peaches Rolling off of limping tables, In a dark cottage alone, In the middle of an existence Nowhere that we could recognize.