I Am Not a Poet

I am not a tall, proud Indian.
I am not a weeping willow.
I am not a sidewalk shadow.
I am not a fire yearning to break free.

I am not a seedling.
I am not a far-reaching
Tree branch, I am not
The greatest thing to ever walk the earth.
I am the worst.

I am the best,
The brightest, the whitest egg
In the nest, the next great
Mistake to be made
When the wind comes through the trees.

I can see why you’d think this was silly.
I can understand why you'd think I hold the world
In the palm of my tiny, torn hand
Because when I smile,
My white teeth gleam in the florescent lights
But they catch no one’s eye
And I am free to do what I please.

See,
I can stand still and straight as the world turns
And move only my eyes,
Trying to keep time with the heartbeat of every living creature.
Every shadow, every fire, every tree.

But I am not a poet,
Because I cannot set them free.

Housefire

In the way that the flames lick your tail fur,
You feel them pulling on you.
In the way they lick your tail fur,
You feel them taking you.
In the way that the flames lick your paws,
You feel them dancing with you.
In the way they lick your paws,
You feel them move you.
In the way that the flames lick your muzzle,
You feel them calling to you.
In the way they lick your muzzle,
You feel them needing you.
In the way that the flames lick your belly,
You feel them hungry for you.
In the way they lick your belly,
You feel them eat you.