What got there, got there
Then it stayed. Like glue
A doctor implied. Like prayer
Argued another clad like a father
Black as grease. It stung
And stuck inside. A thorn
She cried; a hornet having died
The priest complained – unsin
Thy side! It was presented
In a finding so I had to decide:
Pull out the fervid pin or wasp
Away to little else besides lather
On a shaved boy’s chin. Its clasp
Was like wax on a ski or an LP’s skin.
It slid about, it grooved, it played
The length and lines of me, a musicness
Unto breath. A tiny ceaseless death
The dentist opined then wanted cash.
It felt like wine-slosh in my brainpan.
All night I travelled in my bed, a train.
Each carriage disgorged an ailment
But this main thing only grew in size.
It happened finally to emit a claim
On my own name. It wanted out
But as me. I feigned indifference
To my external self, retained some
Dignity. Soon though, unguents came
And took the resourceful fluid for a stroll.
It shook off the air and walked upright, so
Everyone who saw it nodded at my soul.
March 21, 2012
poem by Todd Swift