The Mess of a Poet

Wandering the supermarket, I stumble with an empty basket and list of half written poems, Through aisles and adjectives, Picking up a punnet of puns, A sonnet of strawberries, but not before kissing each one and biting the red flesh. I’m afraid the delicatessen isn’t looking very delicate at all today, My unmade bed of writing strewn along the counter like a cheap woman’s perfumed sheets, Hiding a badly written sentence. I catch a stray paragraph and beat it into submission, stuffing it into overflowing pockets of rhyme. Standing at the potatoes, I massage one in each hand, fondling the clinging red dirt until it digs under my nails, and the words waterfall out of my head, making damp the soil. Mute, I’m digging the grave, planting the tree, busy hands smoothing the fresh earth. I’m a farmer, mother, lover, a man with slicked back hair, who’s looking for his wife. I finally drop the yams, yarning to strangers as my hands wipe dusty memories on stoic thighs, I carry the weight of words to the next passage. Inspecting each stanza, I hold it up to the light and turn this way, and that, looking for a better way. I edit before I’ve even written: pre-empt poor structure, synapses birth synopsis, and synonyms. Phrases escape my lips, until I push them back with a muffled gasp, silently stuffed into each corner of my mouth. Sated, I burp my way past the coffee, cat food and cans, wondering where my next meal of words will take me. A recipe for perilous penchant. Patty Beecham ©