What you think I am revving up to write?
More or less bleat like a wool cardigan
(tan with red trim)?
Whistle like a viola for the theatre?
Sputter and I’m getting paid for it?
The words of Mr. Atomic?
What what is that on your chin edible
like home turf for the tongue a tongue lawn?
How to find the work you love?
Which means I guess that I’m not a wool cardigan!
That the angel
has already had his moment!
Am I revving up enough with the questions,
the drama of donuts, of couches, of lemons, of birds
that I’ll perhaps never realize them?
