It’s come unto my reckoning that poetry is never-ending. Sitting in my class, I say, “I’ll write a poem about my day!” I’ll write about my morning, then, and how I couldn’t find a pen. I drove to school on Austin Peay and pushed the pedal drowsily. I bought a shirt a size too big then ran downstairs to do some trig. I ate some cookies and did some work, for Calculus, I do not shirk. I went to band and spun my hand and played the notes that Dixon wrote. We finished early in English class. I thought about how I need to save gas. In Economics, I fell asleep and tried so very hard to keep from slipping out of that old seat and falling down next to my feet. I ate some lunch and some of Jim’s then wrote about my foolish whims. I wrote a line and made a rhyme and something strange came to my mind. Poems that I write about are poems that go ’round-about. If I write about poetry and glaze it in hyperbole, a poem of my day would need to mention the very words you read, so it’s come upon my reckoning that poetry is never-ending.