What the hell is that?
Blank, yes, but free?
Or is it just me – because
I can’t ditch the cadence
permanently. It’s like a taunt,
haunting as I feel my way
down forbidding alleys
like four fingers into a glove.
There is a stepdance rhythm
in my ancestry. I can’t help that;
it follows like some dimwit spaniel.
I try to shake it but [I’ll trade for
a feline metaphor] the cat keeps
coming back – and It does me doggerel.
I write the worst rhyming shit imaginable
punished for having tried
to escape the pulse in my blood.