we outta here with our pens and our plans
and our cramped-up hands and our scrib
-bled dreams. these syllables are our last
gasps and death-rattle rasps of lyric, lung
and ripped-at-stanza seams. this means
our scribbles are all scrabbled out, and
there’s no doubt we’re through (and through)
too tired for poem schemes. these prompts
and circumstances, these crazy iambic dances
and last-ditch stitches and stashes of phrase.
for days and days and days (and daze), we’ve
inked. we’ve thinked. we’ve blinked and blinded
ourselves and binded our shelves with craft and craze.
we’re done. it’s been fun. it’s been real and we’re real
tired. expired, without a doubt. retired poets, out.
written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
congrats to all who completed this always-crazy month in this weird pandemic year.