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Poem

What would I do if there were only one of me
and not this raucous house on sky high stilts
shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum
rooster proud and peacock pitchy
like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs
but many more mice,
and they are all writing this poem
from inside a giants eye?

What if this was my last brew, last blow,
last blathering?
What if this was my last poem,
unfinished, tragically abandoned
because of some unforeseen poxy palsy
that splits my cranium open
letting all the air out? 

Would I be content, or bent backwards forever?
No not content, not content at all, no indeed not.
What good would high stilts do me then
and how many blind mice
must be beheaded in order to gag
a never ending last breath?

I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud.
What if this were the only poem in the world
tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is,
why then, I would be just one, only one,
and that would not do - not do at all

or perhaps…

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