Six Inches of Space

Last night, at MoJo's, I was surrounded by people I love who regulary nurture the muse. We were listening to a poet and I was snagged by a line in her poem - the title of this blog. I spoke my thought outloud and said, "We should all write something with this title." The reply I received was completely unexpected. Leah, The Sculptor, raised her hand as if measuring the space and raised her eyebrow at Roghaar, The Poet. His thick moustache danced knowingly above his lips, and he nodded back.

I, in a rare bout of innocence, had no idea what the average measure they referred to was until I turned to Google to begin a "found poem". Well, now I know. And here is the result of what I found:

Six Inches of Space

How can we fill it
when locks of love require four inches more?
When this Imperial length
is the difference between a river and a flood?

A good chef's knives don't have to be long.
Even Ben Franklin turned green
in your wallet, looking
down at the stainless steel
stilettos from Sevilla - a smooth rimmed bowl
made of Cherrywood.

The Pentagon's pushing pop icons
to enter
the decision space
of potential soldiers,
and Mr. October taught Hoot Gibson
to make chin music with it.

Global creativity doesn't have to be based
in Mumbai. Dangerously
low-levels of Pringles in Cincinnati
and overnight snowfall in Canton, Illinois
can press -
when six inches
and a coronary are all that separate us.