Workshop
The aspiration to write Is always embarrassing. Pen in hand, notebook open. The broken piece has been Dragged into the workshop. Fiction that washes over us Without grabbing hold of us. A poem like language passed Through a meat grinder. There's something wrong with it. It won't run, won't even turn over. The mechanics start in on it With saws and welding torches. And there sits the writer, earnestly Taking notes and nodding. It's broken beyond repair but They have to believe that It can be fixed. Better to strip it down, Sell the parts, Press whatever's left Into a colorful cube, Call it art.