Poetry Hides

Poetry hides in the rough pages of the books

you promised to read but never did.

Poetry hides in the thoughts of a soft spoken man.

And lingers in the words of a child.

Writing hides in the dirty penny that always

finds it way back to you.

It hides in the pin size fruit fly that won't leave you be.

Poetry hides in the beautiful women who never smiles in photographs.

Poetry is in the art of your enemy, in the jealousy when it's better than yours.

Writing hides in the old copper wrist watch your grandfather gave you

that ticks a minute behind the rest.

Poetry hides in the old women across the street.

It swims in her spidery blue-green veins. 

It crouches in the grey field of hair like a gazelle hides from a lion.

Poetry is an intruder into your everyday life.

He hitchhikes on the memories you try to forget.

He's the snow flake that falls into your lashes.

the hick-up that doesn't budge.

he sits on your shelf of nick knacks in your living room waiting for you to notice him.