4.15.15

We're at the halfway point...I'm 15 for 15 so far!  Today's prompt dealt with a poem that addresses itself...this may not be exactly it, but it went where it wanted to.  Hell, it always does.

Function of Poetry

My poems run down

washboard gravel roads,

sneakers sliding, teetering

between the wildflower ditches,

fighting the prairie winds,

looking for the pieces I’ve dropped.

My poems stay up all night

while I sleep, assigning numbers

to the fireflies, cataloging the stars,

rearranging the constellations

of my mind, rewriting physics,

quieting the chaos.

My poems come armed

with needle and thread, duct tape

and glue guns, lathe and baling wire.

They stitch and patch and build

and cobble me back together

whenever I come flying apart.