A poem
is a twenty-dollar bill
folded into
a bayonet
slipped behind
the bra without
a secret compartment
left beneath
a mattress in Prague
next to a crumpled napkin
formerly perched
on top of a tray,
a swan set next
to the butter that hasn’t
melted under my tongue
even as
I serenely slice
half-truths to be served
with dinner’s red-eye gravy.
– pld