It’s Wednesday. I’m whiny. I think I’ve done an okay job at not whining for a few Wednesdays, but I’m gonna take it up again. I’m tired, it’s late, and teenagers smell and are loud. They drove all the poetry from my brainspace. It can feel cruel, at times. There. Whine over.
I have to do this fast, and with nothing to go on. A speed poem. If I call it a technique, I can definitely count it as worthy poem practice.
Walk into the shop, look at the pegboard, see the vice-grip. Dark car ride home, drove without seeing, just watching, for glinting eyes on the roadside, imagined several scenarios in which you felt it, what they feel, the young people in the songs on the radio, who are pretty sure they are up to no good, who sing of taking shots and pretty girls riding shotgun, or engage in musical discourse with mr. dj. The student in tall boots on city sidewalks feeling, the nights awaking to long hours without hesitation, a linked elbow jaunt in cities with rivers down the middle, those scenarios, that feeling of being on a search without a prize. Walk into the shop, look at the pegboard, see the vice-grip. Vice-grip of in between youth and youthful, youth is what you were, youthful is how you resemble what you were then, what you are sort of like now, youthful is what you look like on a full night’s sleep and in the clothes of your choosing instead of the costumes of your responsibilities, there is a panic in the image that holds you still in its perfect grip as you walk into the shop, look at the pegboard, see the vice-grip, freeze as it tightens you, but just for a minute, until you listen and he’s humming to the song about tonight, we are young, and you are glad, then, to be growing youthful at the exact same time.
I do not like poeming fast. I do like bed. Good night, poem friends. Happy Wednesday!