sense, the way a dog
is a machine for barking.
And just so, there are side effects:
the mess that takes you by surprise
(the wondering when did that happen?)
the licking your face
when you’re trying to sleep
and unless you take precautions
always more poems.
Inspired by the need to write a nine-line poem (because why not) in response to a NaPoWriMo prompt. And of course bearing in mind John Ciardi, who famously said that, in his opinion, “a poem is a machine for making choices.” But then, what isn’t? (In the same essay Ciardi said: “The poet who chooses cheaply or lazily is guilty of aesthetic acedia, and he is lost thereby.” Wikipedia helpfully defines acedia as “not caring or not being concerned with one’s position or condition in the world,” which to be honest sounds okay to me.)