It’s not always about fleas.
Sometimes an itch
is an itch is an itch.
Midnight came and went thirty minutes ago,
and it’s honestly too late
to be writing this poem.
So what am I doing still up
instead of dreaming
about the day
I will finally make it to Maine?
I’ll tell you why,
it’s because of a little thing called personal growth.
Once upon a time
whenever I was too tired
to sleep and too tired to stop writing,
I would crochet:
Image Image
Turn of Phrase
Image Half-Rhyme
and Loose Iambic Pentameter
to bring it home.
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m not saying I’m proud of how easy it was.
One of my old teachers
said I was “tatting” when I did this.
I’ll confess:
I’ve made my fair share of doilies
out of words
when I was learning how to write.
Guilty as charged.
Throw away the key.
If I had the chops
like Lorca to toss out a dolphin of love
or steel flames,
I would fill pages
with my words
and quickly become unbearable to be around.
During lunch today I said,
“Don’t play with your food”
with a straight face.
I know
what you must be thinking right now.
In my defense,
there is no defense,
and so I wish to recant,
to have my words stricken from the record.
Here comes the sun,
wagging its tail.
It jumps over a cloud
and then another and another.
It licks my face.
Who’s a good boy?
Who’s a good boy?