Love. Work. Death. Complaints. It’s the human condition. Whether you wrestle with it, bear it aloft, taste a little schmeck of it on your tongue or pass it along to some other unfortunate, you can’t hope to fathom where you came upon it or whether there’s a returns policy. Some say poetry is pulled unknowingly out of us, like birdsong. These people are annoying, seeing mystery for mystery’s sake. Criticism is pulled unknowingly out of us like birdsong. Small talk is. Sleeptalk is. The first attempt at a phone message is. Poetry takes graft, craft and chisel-work. Especially limericks.