Poem?

Early one morning a few weeks ago I took myself and my second cup of coffee of the day to a nearby conservation area. As I sat flipping through my notebook I came across something I had written a long time ago about someone I had briefly dated. It sounded vaguely poem-like and so I tried to turn it into one, although in doing so I realized that I have no idea how one decides where to put line breaks. It was all a shot in the dark and I’m sure I committed more than one poetic homicide. And I no doubt failed to take advantage of the connotative dynamism and aesthetic value of ink abutting blankness.* Hence, “Poem?"

Liminal space

I didn’t believe you when you mentioned in passing that that storefront 

window contains a door that leads to an upstairs apartment 

where people who have no connection to the sale of women

’s undergarments live.

But I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you

were a hoarder who had 16 garbage bags full of who-knows-what

stored under the pool table in your “living” room/in-house landfill. 

And I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you drank 

Starbucks coffee out of disposable cups instead of bringing 

a travel mug to an independent coffee shop.

And I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you lived

with your mother and your sister and her daughter Lily

and maybe living with a collection of relatives is merely

a symptom of the hoarding you previously mentioned in passing 

and therefore should not be counted as a separate

mark against you but I took it as such and by that point you had three

strikes and were out of my little black book.

But a few months ago when I was shopping for a strapless bra to wear 

under a sleeveless dress which isn’t at all a flattering look 

for me but I hoped I could pull it off nevertheless I peered

more closely at that storefront window and by golly

it does contain a door although I don’t know if it led to an upstairs apartment

where people who have no connection to the sale of women

’s undergarments live.

And as I walk today in a literal fog, bare-branched bushes

festooned with doilies spun by spiders and chickadee

warlords demanding tribute before they let me pass

I wonder why I hoard these memories instead of something useful like women

’s undergarments.

* If you’re not taking advantage of the connotative dynamism and aesthetic value of ink abutting blankness afforded by poetic line breaks, you’re not writing the best poetry. In fact, you’re not writing poetry at all. (https://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/poetic-line-breaks-guide/ )