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 the recycled verse of vision uncorrected,
of pecking questions that beg
like 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
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.