by Michael A. Wells


The Quaker Oats are peaceful

I add banana, but it’s still silent

even the dogs do not get up.


I coddle the poison

ivy growing up my leg

my attention deficit turning


like a vine around a pole

playing Russian roulette 

clicking on chambers


except they’re never empty—

even the immaterial

has its own place


I’m like that.

I give importance

where others decline.


A hoarder of the insignificant,

I will not vilify the tiniest pronouns

for each has a meaningful existence

we would do well to emulate,

grow old and comfortable in,

until we’re gone and it’s finally said:

well done.