The poet wrote about alcoholism,
his personal battle, and the reader
asked, “Why, why would you write
about that?”
“That’s what poetry is,” replied
the poet. “It is bits and pieces
of our lives, dissected and examined,
displayed for
all to see.” And so it is. Fragments
of what we have lived, done, seen,
all splayed out on the autopsy table
waiting for
the examiner’s knife, cutting through
to the heart of who we are, what
we have experienced, still searching
for the why.
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