This poem is carrying a sign – hell,
no, we won’t go! and finding herself
lost in the dark hours of the morning
with a grumbling stomach and a
busted volume switch. Which way is
against the grain? She longs to rub
(rug burn)somebody the wrong way,
display her broken brave and save
the wails. She’d love to pass the time
with a quiet private rhyme or two, con
-vince herself she’s new. She’s weary
of these twisters, these youngling fears.
She’s all about antidisestablishment
-arianism, a voice for the poets who
long to rogue a phrase. She’s glorious
in her rebel unapologetics, steadfast
in her loathing of iambics and bound
feet. She’s a street busker at best, a
test of forgiveness and flush of breath.
This poem is hinting at something more,
some pre-apocalyptic score of full-time
scribe. She holds a rhythm and a pen
-chant for going on and on (and on);
don’t encourage her, she’s at it again.
In November, we poem. This is the one with all the prompts.