Root Canal
The Paying (I wish) Public marvels
at what comes out: those explosive, star-spangled
phrases and melodies (the few times I get it right);
but what of the great-real that went in, the life-struggles,
the tears, the soul-smothering isolation – not to forget
the little left of me, squirming squiggly, imprisoned
with the many nameless, sparsely filled, crumpled-up
white-pulp battlefields in the wastebasket – my inky piles of bones –
clawed-out guts (the years of painful extraction,
likened to going to the dentist, then being told, that I have a serious abscess,
needing an immediate Root Canal, though unfortunately
Covid has prevented our delivery of anesthetic)...
Oh well, here goes again:
Roses are red – so is a poet's blood;
The moon strings silvery, strum-able beams –
myself too busy to play them, running on a
treadmill, going nowhere, in my Write-blocked-nightmare,
ominously pulled from words my stalled mind should be chasing...
So, my Love (Poetry), she does
and she does not – till one
mightily fit for publication:)
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