The Strange Longing of a Contented Man

I wonder
if all the poetry is gone.
I've stolen from fiction
and narrated outlandish
but rational thoughts.

Where is the poetry?
So grounded am I
in acceptable habit I call
happiness that
the dancing doesn't come.

I don't see the longing posture of the trees;
calcify the sad
memories. I almost want them back.
Maybe I need another
broken heart.