I heard a poet yesterday.

Parked behind a podium,
he unlocked and rolled-up
the rusty overhead door
of his warehoused soul
and began unloading
words, dock-high.
Palatable crates
of joy boxed with pain,
fork-lifted, under-weight.
Second-hand wit shipped
with wisdom third-rate.
Road-damaged goods
and factory-sealed fate.
The freight of his life
re-packaged and packed 
through high-mileage ears
to my semi-heart.

I heard this poet
and thought, 
"Is anyone really empty enough
to haul around someone else's
crap?"