This Poem by Vona Groarke

This is the poem that won’t open
no matter where you press.

This is the poem that cries on street corners
and plays at being lost.

This is the poem arranged at a tilt
so all the words slide off.

This is the poem with lacquered roses
closing in on themselves after dark.

This is the poem that plays itself out
in dives in the small hours.

This poem likes to fool around
in other people’s cars.

This poem gives away small coins
and winks at strangers’ kids.

This is the poem that understands
what it is to be a dog.

This is the poem with a teensy tattoo
you’ll never get to see.

This poem has no big plans for you,
which is something, as poems go.