I feel frustration bubbling
against the crock-pot of my bones.
All these prize winning poets seem so calm! I exclaim
to the steering wheel, to the dusty dash, to the sagged and barren passenger seat.
When I write I move periods
like dark stones of real weight.
I flick words
from one line
to the next
with the violence
of a middle finger
from under a thumb.
Be like the fly,
my master tells me.
Do you ever see a fly relent?
How many times have you tried to swat
those flies from the banana skin on your lap?
I look down.
Sure enough three flies rub their hands gleefully
on the browning skin.
But what if I’m not fast enough?
Feast or be killed,
my master shrugs,