Forgive me for wanting the blizzard
Or the terror of the hurricane
To give my life a pop.
Maybe that’s the wild call of romance
It gives me a to-do list every day
Not one of which matters.
Facebook has fifty tons of poems
Each single day, each one critical
To the writer’s being.
Sometimes, I get lost in all the words
Miss the rhythms and the inner pain
That caused the pen to lift.
Too old to get juicy over sex
And the thrill of orgasm has dimmed
In my ache for mere touch.
This is nine and nine and six no rhyme
Which may make it a sheer waste of time
But it’s something to do
On a cold and rainy East Coast morn
For an ailing and unemployed broad:
Knitting verses out of words.
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