sitting at my kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
‘thoughts’ cram my vapid head
never to disappoint, there she is my gooey, ‘Annie Oakley’
the incessant ‘creative’ cowgirl who rides my bulging brain every morning
trying her ‘Wild West’ best to lasso bucking words
working up quite a sweat she is, as I so often do trying to be ‘clever’
I’ve no chance of corralling these wild beasts
wax fences are nonexistent in my vacant mind
the most ‘insightful’ prose gallop directly out my right ear
wax that should be in my empty head is on the kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
here a tiny flame–cruelly trapped in a jar–flickers
–
like my tongue used to so many years ago
watching the singular flame burn, I imagine it raging
but the cold fireplace is empty like my head
outside the kitchen sliders, a tiny tufted .6 ounce titmouse
enjoys the seed I loaded in the feeder
others will be along
oh yes, here they come
the heavy snow is cascading down and these frail birds are stronger
than my slumbering two hundred and fifty-five pound son at the moment
when I was little
my mom and dad served as bookends at our rectangular kitchen table
their six children, incomplete chapters
now my parents have a round table too, with obligatory leaves for visitors
no more sharp corners for any of us
oh, a beautiful red-headed woodpecker has joined the snow-ladened feast
luckily for him his long chiseled beak is as sharp as it is
otherwise, he couldn’t reach the seed
life doesn’t have to dull everything down
it is glorious to have a point sometimes
isn’t it?