I keep saying I’ll write that tomorrow,
no time now to pour words out like dry caked
powder, grind them with pestles I borrowed
from teachers, seal them in capsules I take
once a day to keep my silent terror
from exploding. Funny how we avoid
medicine we need, quickly blame errors
on our lovers, hiding from change. Annoyed
by reality poking at my gut,
my sneaky self leans into me, rasping,
“You ought to drink again. Have a snort.” But
my trusty pal steps between us, grasping
ol’ sneak by the throat, applying abuse.
So I grab the keyboard. Await the Muse.
Roger Armbrust
August 6, 2009
