THE LITTLE RED ROWBOAT
Maybe not too
often a red wagon
but a rowboat
appears in poems of
idea-faring
poets. I painted mine
vermilion-lipstick
red to link with the eye
of the
oppressive sun, a vexatious
goose-neck
lamp beaming angst at the poet’s heart.
Poetic inspiration
is an empty
milk bottle,
the proverbial monkey wrench
that jimmies
the cogs through which dust bunnies
transform
smoke screens into poetry.
Sometimes the
red rowboat spouts hairline leaks
to panic the
jejune poet so he stands
wobbly-kneed,
quasi-demented, afraid to create.
But all at
once the clouds mask the sun and
the poet retrieves
his pen from the floor.
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