all poets think about death

it’s the funny way 

we all think of our kitchens

plants on the windowsill, clutter, wooden spoons 

brew tea in steel kettles and envelop ourselves in yellow glows 

we all sit and watch the rain

get drunk, high, laugh, or contemplate suicide

in narrow stairwells and in the corporate starbucks 

on various rooftops and in quiet classrooms 

and everything written blackens the page 

we watch the train click across the tracks 

feel the earth, the weight of our existence 

search for meaning in parties and in new haircuts 

long for purpose in despair 

and i try to fill the ache inside