Remember when you were little
and made up jokes?
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Potatoes.
Potatoes who?
Potatoes for dinner.
Is that funny?, you’d ask.
If I admitted, no, it wasn’t all that funny,
you’d ask, astonished and aggrieved, Why not?
Tuning yourself
like a dial,
learning to hear
what is worth laughing about,
stubbornly convinced
that you already knew what
was funny: Everything.
Absolutely everything.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 