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Pounding Afraid
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Piles of thoughts drop along,
in certain style they will be born.
I wonder why the plant is dying.
I watered it every day.
Cared for it and sang it
old rock and roll songs.
Now that it is near death
I imagine it is not a
rock and roll fan.
Does not want to bother with
three guitars and a drum.
Pounding, pounding, pounding
sonnets of sleeping men.
I am one of them.
I'm afraid.
I'm fearing every hot and cold
metaphor that
glistens on the ground.
What is to come?
What is to be?
What time of day
might I arrange
to drop the fear away?
Slipping, slipping, slipping
into towels wrapped
with heated sarcasm.
A piece of the puzzle
drops to the floor.
I'm not going to pick it up
