IT’S NOT A CONTEST
by William Winfield Wright
But if we wanted to,
we could paint speeding cars,
sneak into business class,
eat oysters in months with a W,
turn back clocks with just our fingers,
and mend the wind-up toy versions
of both our broken hearts.
“How,” says the movie Indian
inside your tired and frantic brain.
“Weight,” says the bathroom scale
we both got on together.
“Clear,” says the busy maitre d.
“Stile,” says your backyard fence full of flowers.
The noisy kitchen’s full
of “bathe, warm, coddle, grate, zest.”
“Here, here,” says the old British guy on TV.
“Join,” say the corners of all your sturdy furniture.
“Wing,” say the birds in your small tree.
William Winfield Wright is a Fulbright Scholar and a Fishtrap Fellow. He was born in California and lives in Grand Junction, Colorado, where he teaches at Colorado Mesa University. He has published in 14 Hills, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Field, The Ninth Letter, Permafrost, The Seattle Review, The South Carolina Review, Third Coast, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart and featured on Poetry Daily.
Image credit: Tristan Colangelo on Unsplash