’Dis Obedient Poem

…

’Dis poem ain’t in line
or just in time. She’s got one
black eye and bruised feet
and a pen
-chant for running out
in the street before she’s
fully dressed.

She don’t listen, or glisten,
or wrap a decent rhyme
around her inelegant should
-ers. She don’t know how
to say please, or how to
appease, or how to give
peace a chance.

’Dis poem don’t know much
(ness)
about anything. Not
how to ring the moon, nor
celebrate the sea. She’s on
the wrong side of the tracks,
and she can’t get back
into her own bright skin.

In fact, she’s in time out.
{Again.}

’Dis poem refuses to do
-ses
what anyone else says
is right. She’ll fight you
in both think and
ink. She drinks.
{Rum
-bled phrases
and weak turme(t)ric tea.}

But if you ask her
to just
be,

she’ll fold her un
-iambic hands
and say,

………………..Yes, ma’am.

 

..
Prompted by Poetic Asides. 

 

 

 

 

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