life is on poetry support

I heard this from Don McClean, folk singer
“Poetry is on life support”
72 of age he still tours, his wife and daughter say
he was abusive
so consider his opinion
next to a grocery clerk
who happens to think poetry is everywhere
and reads
the label of organic sauerkraut
non-debate, mostly because the value of poetry is undeniable
life is
poetry support
without it Don wouldn’t sing, his anger would
I haven’t tried to write poetry to inflict pain, or sing with venom, or destroy my children’s dollhouse,
or leave my wife for a bag of fried potatoes
place a bird on a stage, shine a light at its horny projecting jaw it won’t sing
we write
to recite terror
an old man watching from the hallway
motionless in bed, sobbing till someone arrives
arms around us, words surround
without it, Don wouldn’t sing sloppy poetic,
thoughts keep sauerkraut bacteria nourished, fresh, so that the boy looks
to the teacher, told, stay close, keep within sight of hospitals, of institutions and bread
that was understood, that was once read
language ferments each moment, shredded, layered to enrich
the bird the boy, a chirp of joy, words under the soil,
minstrels observe whispers to wires to robots so that the boy reads
converting sugary thoughts,  preserving life
words accumulating
ideas composting
into a ball of poetic cabbage
steaming and sour
on a plate at the diner on a fork in the mouth of touring folk singer