Why I Am Not a Poet

Poets listen for the fitting word,
one shape to hold the space
between noun and verb.

I do not listen, I babble
and prose is not formed right -
whole and content like that.

I break my chatter into pieces
and confess as if healing is
certain for what is finally said.

Sadness won’t be said
so it comes back like a bad joke
perhaps made funny with inflection.

I am a priest in reverse. But this
attenuated life will not be filed
quietly into lines.

I do not listen I am yelling
I am yelling with both hands
day and night I am yelling.