Poetry and a Slightly Crooked Smile

I write verse because I can't afford therapy 

and paper doesn't interrupt me. 

It's cheaper than wine, 

and more socially acceptable than shouting at squirrels.

Sometimes I knead words—like dough, 

only no one wants to eat what I make. 

They say it's deep—but it’s mostly

just a metaphor I dropped in a puddle.

I tried to pare a stanza down, 

but ended up with a pear and a blank page. 

Poems are full of sighs—not size— 

though mine tend to be both.

I told my poem to heel— it ran off,

unrhymed and unleashed. 

Now I chase after meaning like it owes me rent.

But I’ll keep writing, 

because every line is a punchline 

if you read it with the wrong tone 

and a slightly crooked smile.