tell me what it was that you dreamed
before your butt became wooden. (petrified)
were you going to be a writer, an artist,
a musician, an astronaut, a cook, a baker
a candlestick maker, what was it?
perhaps you are not following me
i, wood butt, don't have the time
i, wood butt, wait for the right circumstances
i, wood butt, i really don't want to
do it, because i am scared or really
don't want to, but it makes me feel
cool to imagine if it really happened
i, wood butt, makes me want to grow
colonies of hungry termites
to turn loose on the unsuspecting city
we are sitting at this outdoor table
a real piece of work, broken glass
mosaic in soldered iron & this guy
i admire, he writes, putting words together
in ways that make you salivate,
rubbing your eyes in their brilliance
is talking & i am picking his brain
sifting chopsticks through the noodles
for those that have rubbed elbows
with the sesame chicken, wrestling
off the glaze & he says it, "wood butt"
i choke on a fly that tours my
gaping mouth & i wonder when the
last time was that he actually wrote
something new, imagining piles of old manuscripts
he dusts off when he needs something fresh
"there has got to be a better way
than putting people in body bags
before they stop breathing, toe tags
hanging out just to give them a name,"
my words crawl across the table
rattling the door, finding it locked
he looks at me kinda funny, so i say
"never mind, tell me about one of
your stories," the same one as last time
and i feign interest, while i write
this for you, on a slightly soiled napkin.
"waiter, check please."
One Shot Wednesday - no theme, just poetry...write one, come join us...
Tuesday nights at 5 pm EST.