My friend wrote a poem
about buying a wooden spoon.
I wrote one about a whisk broom.

A friend – perhaps the “wooden spoon” friend -
told me the best poems are about the
most unlikely things.

Not of moonlight and love.
Maybe of monkey wrenches or
paper clips or dirty windows.

But I’m not sure.
I think one just needs people
or things that can be people.

I want to convince the reader that
even a whisk broom
can love.

I bought a small gift, one I truly coveted and
could easily have decided
not to donate to the prize table.
But its winner, knowing, gave it back to me.

I wonder, do I own or am I owned by things?
But when this thing was “mine,”
it wasn’t mine.

It was its own, un-ownable.
A beautiful, graceful whisk broom, long, cylindrical,
with twirling bristles of gold and sepia and not-quite-red
bursting from its tightly bound handle.

Each strand of her full, straw skirt turns slightly in one direction.
She twirls. She enchants. She is her own.
Like all angels.