Draft 2: Metapoem

A Poem

Is a curse word, but not one of the awful
ones you can’t say on TV. I yell
it to myself when I stub my toe.
The cat will meow, asking what I’ve done.
I’m starting to think the meow is a poem.
Hi-fives—poem—
from all sides, clutching a plastic remote
for the glass-eyed flat-screen
we recite these and eat cheese
dip and Fritos.

In the day, when sun too hot
or wind too brisk moistens my
underarms—or the tenuous grasp
of tires on concrete slips,
the poem, from the exhaust pipe
that is not my mouth, sizzles upward
and onward—ho!—eating its way
through layer after layer of ozone.

The dentist noticed the poem
on my molars, the stains, he said,
would ease with time.
And careful, persistent brushing,
remember up and down? Left and right.
Don’t forget to floss, he said,
lest the poem come back.