LXIII Billy Collins life

I life were like a Billy Collins poem,
There'd always be that certain turn of phrase,
That--by the time all of the lines were done--
Would leave the reader poignantly amazed.
Those scraps that hungry tempests love to toss,
Would all be folded into drawers and shelves,
And only fuss from time to time the loss
Of wilder pulses where they once had dwelled.
The highs and lows of passions crushed or crashed
With all their jagged edges on the strand,
Would already have smoothed where they were dashed
Into the wind that blows the other sands.
    Life would just say the things it had to say,
    Then leave us aching, in a gente way.