By  Adam Deutsch

And we have too many books,
shelved, boxed up, writings
about writers’ writings, earlier
editions. They become animals
aging in stacked crates
among the garage machines.
They’re out of sight beasts,
ideas quietly cleaning their hides
preening feathers in dark nests
near cans of touch-up paint,
lids we pounded down
with rubber mallets
so they last. They live beside
a leaking thing we never drive,
and scrap wood in the rafters
we’ll burn, or reclaim to build
a tiny house for a life’s rest.
Maybe we’ll bring them in
as pets, cozy on couches,
stroke their spines. We’ll
clean up after their messes.

Adam Deutsch lives in San Diego, teaches college composition and writing, and has work recently or forthcoming in Poetry International, Thrush, The Cossack Review, Ping Pong, and Typo. He is the publisher at Cooper Dillon Books, and has a chapbook from H_NGM_N Books called Carry On.