I could write a poem about my boots,
or the wool gloves I found
in the glove compartment from last winter.
Or, I could write about the extra blankets
from the closet, on the unmade bed,
or the cupboards where I hear mice
above the heat of the furnace
that climbs the strange frozen rivers in the window.
I could describe the broken moon
lighting nothing but the films of road
beneath the dislocated shoulders of trees.
I could add some lines about the cell phone tower
in the field, and the tiny light blinking on my phone,
and I could compare them to a plane,
or, this thought I’ve left unsaid. I could
talk about the words, and then my life.