String

I found this playwright
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.

And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.

But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.