Fun to write a poem now.
Don’t know if I can.
I ache, and how!
I’ll *M*A*S*H* down with my fiddle bow
and make like to skin a cat.
Fun to scratch a poem now—
whatever it takes to wow
the crowd and get a hand.
I ache, and how!
I ache with (what else?) love—
a flower by a watering can.
I’ll weep a poem now
about the day they drove
the nymphs out of the hinterlands.
An ache was all
that remained, buried under snow,
to show that anyone ever cared.
I’ll cast my poem now
to patch my brow.
