I used to think every day
was a day for poetry.
I used to sit out of a lot
in favor of making art.
It was therapy, which I needed,
and an excuse, which I did not.
But every day is not a day for poetry.
Some days are for naps or trips or wins
or parties, things for art to borrow,
for time to heal, for time to work,
for time to learn ourselves
outside of the written word.
If I take my own advice I know
today is a day for a cookout and so
I’ll finish this poem tomorrow
or I won’t. It’s all okay.