Tug-of-Words

..

This poem is
a struggle, a red hot mess.
It needs a life
vest, a straight
jacket, a kick in the pants
and a hat
to hang homeward.

This poem needs
a snuggle. A hug. Some small shrug
to tell it the world is fine
and good and right. Something
to fight for. Some small flight
of fancy. A sequin. Or a bit of
string.

It’s rambling
and scrambling
its own helter-skelter way,
scuffling and scrapping together
some semblance of sway
(almost.)

This poem will
neither boast nor stand
upon some soapbox
(derby) smile. It’s got a few
thousand miles under its
skin and a few million
more to go and it’s slow
as molasses but tastes
pretty good over first
December snow.

Oh, this poem.

See it climb, only
to fall? See it fail? See it
stall its way through another
stanza trying to stand
on its own two I Am
-bic feet? See it treat
itself to a word or two,
a blue-streak phrase
or a more somber hue
of
puce?

See it worry
and war and wrestle
with its own self
worth?

It’s about to get
what it most de
-serves: an ending.
A bending toward fin
-ality. Some personality
to carry it up into this
inky starspilled mess.

This. Poem.
Confess: un
-dressed, it’s stressed.
And not quite feeling its someday best.

 

..
Prompted by Poetic Asides. 

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