Sometimes I try to forge
a thing of practical sensibility
and future potential
Mold my dreams into
those of an accountant or risk manager
or some-such concrete job.
Turn my feathers into pencils and protractors
Take my spiral-tipped musings
and make them dollar bills
Turn these words that spill out of my
ear-tips and toe-tips and split ends
and finally to the correct metacarpals and phalanges
(ear bone connected to the...neck bone
arm bone connected to the....hand bone...)
Turn these cloudburst moments
into a puddle of numbers
For everyone knows it’s only mathematics.
Only. Only only only.
To fight against a foregone conclusion
And light that fire
to torch that forge
t’would be a short-lived flame.
Wordy girl with a phrase on the lips
call it a day.
That forge is busted.