Poetry. Sometimes I admire carpenters (for example). People sit within their work, share dinner on their tables, sleep inside of their houses. Imagine being a plumber and someday knowing that thousands of people can bathe or brush their teeth or cook pasta because of your work. That’s noble; changes lives. I wonder if that’s a satisfying thought. Ever heard of a poetry outage? “The poetry is backing up – better call a type writer?” Do people worry? Does it make people evaluate their survival skills? Question their gardening abilities? Nah. I admire the trades, their necessity. Poetry is like garbage collection – apparent sometimes only in its stinking absence.