poetry showed up

On a Saturday afternoon, late afternoon – it’s always been my favorite time of each week – I removed two 16 ounce cans of Ballantine Ale from my younger sister’s refrigerator, opened each, and poured them down the sink. That was 39 years ago.

I haven’t had to pour out any since.

Isn’t poetry always hiding just around the corner? Just over there? Right on the edge of seeing it?