A poem cannot be a pigeon. It cannot be the wattled beak that cracks the stale bread, it cannot be the craning neck that whips the air. It cannot be the tail or toenail, crop, shield, or eye.
Certainly not the watchful eye.
A poem cannot see the stranger, in ultraviolet glory, take crumbs out of their pocket and shed feast over the small hungry chirps of squeakers unseen by most.
A poem cannot be winged.
When you hold it in your hands and love it, softly, openly, palms up to the sky, a poem– a real poem, that is– cannot fly away.
Prompt: What can’t a poem be? List ten different things a poem cannot be. Then write a poem that attempts to be at least one or more of those things.