The poems in my head
pull a strike at long last.
The union says its piece –
thoughts refuse to budge,
refuse to file neatly from the door.
It’s field day. They don’t file.
Verses ricochet on walls,
lines slant-catch windows,
falling to the floor defeated,
sparrows trying to break free.
They tire of captivity, the endangered
creatures of my mind, pawing
at the wilderness beyond, within,
each time a little further from my reach.
They stop and stare discreetly, brown-eyed,
before they scuttle back to the rainforest,
words leaving me lock-jawed
in the cadaver of the moment.
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