On Being Me

Sometimes I try to forge

of myself

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.

BL 10/9/12