 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
this is not a poem,
you see, i cannot write one,
at least, within your
expectations -
my kidney is infected
so is my breathing
some kind of germ has taken root -
at the hospital they gave me
antibiotics
after asking me
questions about symptoms
there are so many, i said
the nurse did not understand
neither did you -
you see, a poem starts somewhere
goes somewhere
does something
for someone
but, i don’t write like that
so as you said,
i cannot write a poem -
they left me in the waiting room
with single moms
families from El Salvador -
i take a hit in the restroom
to settle my nerves -
they call my name so i can pay
with a credit card dangerously close
to its high limit -
in my head,
i see words form
line after line -
when they spill out
i place them on a flat surface,
cut rocks down to powder
with the hard edge of a credit card
forming lines on a flat surface
[how many lines make a stanza?]
i roll my last five dollar bill
into a tube and snort
each line back into my skull,
rework the poem in my brain -
it’s cold outside as i walk to my car
i have a prescription in my hand
it takes twenty minutes
at the pharmacy
i get home, no one is there
you left before i got started
my poem starts with a thought
and forms on a page -
i am tired
i take my medicine
and go to bed
- jack henry
