Awake Excalibur, up to your hilt
in a stony strata of abiding
decades stacked with foreboding, sensation
of sway widest here at the pitching top
where I jockey for purchase and slap at
my pockets like a man on fire
sudden urge to jot down some notes before
the whole thing topples irresistible.
Sharpie’s and Bic’s enough for one lifetime
tawdry affairs with cheap motel quills
hand thrown two glaze green ware full to the brim
with one-off Tomahawk missiles hawking
Ray’s Heating and Cooling Twenty Four Hour
Service and pilfered office issue
sufficient to pen Shakespeare’s sonnets in
florid cursive with endless revisions.
Fine-tuned fife with a spritely chirp balanced
on the tip of my finger, surprising
heft for the slightest of gifts, yet freighted
with portent, first nail in the coffin
of success from rueful parents or an
aunt with ironic sensibilities.
I’ll try not to think about love letters
and books never written, pleas for money
incitements to revolt, a treatise on
duality, my ninety-five theses
dormant all these years in your thin blue vein
while I compose this grocery list, fingers
burning with the heat of smoldering dreams.