musée

maybe it's a hall pass 
a gasoline can
a trapdoor.

maybe it's the thrill of collusion, 
a firecracker that wouldn't light,
a pocketed twenty discovered years later.
maybe it's the zodiac (killer or birthchart, both are relevant in their way) or
an inside job or 
an inside joke or
a nutcracker. 

maybe they're portholes or periscopes, epigraphs, business cards,
flipbooks, cigars, a safety deposit box.
a stranger wordlessly giving up their seat on the tram,
a fiftieth floor railing that couldn't possibly pass inspection,
a traffic light that flashes yellow after midnight.
maybe their calls come from inside the house.

oh,
okay, sorry,
you just wanted an answer. 
what is a poem?

well
a few are a thumb on your cheek.
they are all two fingers on your neck.