Forcing a Poem From a Reluctant Pen

Confinement is too much of an excuse while the papers are spread across the table. The phone rings: It is the Boston Massacre. Those are funny words when even here, even at this time of wind, overuse is deadly in the wheat germ. Mice droppings show evidence that the wheat is defiled. Be careful, she said, Be careful of the worms that drill inside. The cat knows; she is wise and stretches. Words connected in my brain are tenuous indeed, ephemeral. Read them and you will know my building blocks all scattered across the floor as my papers are scattered now. Put the right words in the search box and you will find me. Try it. Lay down the common law, and unroll it like an old rug once stored and forgotten. (What am I doing here in this cold and desolate winter?) Feed me building blocks of amino acids, the healing of the wound. Comfort me.