Practical, Not Lyrical

I must not be a poet,
for in my night
there is no beautiful moon,
no mysterious stars,
but a porch light
with a cracked shade.
Moths skitter on my face
and I itch in disgust.
Where there should be
bumps in the night,
there is a cat-food stuffed possum
that shuffles into the bushes.
It smells like wet dog.

I must not be a poet,
because I am not remembering
a long lost love,
but instead wondering
if I will ever get the correct ratio
for the weed-whacker’s fuel.
I’m sick of sputtering one minute
and the kind of roar that makes me worry
about explosions the next second.
The stars remind me
of the grocery list I promised to make—
do I need milk?

I must not be a poet.
A mosquito just bit my elbow
and it itches like hell.
The cream better not have expired again.