in every swivel of my pen
tenderness in every swivel of my pen,
the curvature used to be alluring.
it was thoughtless beauty, even
in note form. now, even my index tap
on the overused i-pad causes pain.
ibuprofen and blue ice chisel at my wrist.
i need a needle filled with panacea-ink
to extend the life of my poetic thoughts.
the doc sits around waiting for me to call?
biding my time, hoping an eraser
will correct the mistakes. panic set in
as the doctor has a long list of dates.
Dr. Darth Vader makes me wait on the death star.
O, bend, wan, can, NO, be!
a star wars laser cut off Luke’s hand…*
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