One Poem

I suspect I am just writing the same old poem over and over again.

I am writing one poem repeatedly.
I am a record album,
my scratched & skipping lyrics
caught
in recycled verse
in pecking questions that beg
of the tired man at the corner holding cardboard:

Please Help

I cast hopes as pennies
camouflaged in bronze canyons;
I make Declarations of Importance:

         I the Ego,
         hereby puffed and cracked and
         simultaneously, numb,
         demand ancient answers, ever un-coming.

I will write one poem repeatedly
until I stop
writing one poem repeatedly.

I am writing one poem repeatedly.
It is the only poem there is
         and to write it is the only thing to do.

I am blocking the aisle at the grocery store.
My car has
stalled
in the middle of the intersection.
I am letting my hair go gray,
and there is no makeup on my face.

I say “I’m sorry” a hundred times a day.

I am a record album,
scratched & skipping sotto voce screaming
in a whisper.

I am thinking of retiring the needle altogether.