by Rhonda Krehbiel

I’m frustrated at my lack of ideas
That exist outside of my own realm
All I seem to be able to write about is myself
But that is because I know my being
I think to be a poet is to be a narcissist
Because you see
I find rhymes in my reflection
And I feel words grow in between my teeth
I can look for inspiration in the stories of others
In the boys I have kissed
I can search for something better in the backyard
I can dig holes and plant flowers and make mud puddles
But I know I’m going to spend the hours after
Examining my own fingernails
Picking the dirt and stretching my arms out to inspect
I want them to be clean and smooth and unscuffed
Because there are poems in my fingers