Poetry Is a Freight Train

Poetry is 
     a freight train
that I am forever
     trying to catch

an empty boxcar
     rumbling by
whose murky corners
     are ripe 

with fugitive phrases
     waiting to be plucked 
from their
     darkest depths

I want to hobo my way
     on a transcontinental
journey between
     poetic states
     
a handkerchief
     crowded 
with my favorite words
     slung over my shoulder

Some days
     I love the chase

Breathe

I have the bends
     from being so long
beneath the surface
     of everything
and trying to come up
     too fast

I've forgotten
     how to breathe
after being so long
     at the back of the pack
always a day late
     and a rent check short

I don't remember
     what oxygen tastes like
but I'm sure it must be
    sweet