This poem is a basket
to keep my metaphors
contained, so they don’t
spill out onto the floor
roll under the couch
ball up with the dust
and soon start to smell,
an odor wafting 
about the room
like a lingering worry.

This poem is not a basket
that only decorates a shelf.
It’s a useful poem,
but you can see beauty
where beauty
isn’t the point.
A Swiss Army knife
is a beautiful thing
ready for whatever
you may encounter,
it gives you hope.
Hope is useful
and beautiful.

I keep my ideas contained in a journal.
(You’re a poet, you probably do, too.)
The ones with a sticky phrase
or tickling sound,
I’ll make into a poem,
like a basket holding
fresh-picked peaches
smelling sweet,
so full of juice,
just a beautiful picture
sparking memory of
a perfect day
I never really lived.