There's a flutter in my chest
Let's name him "Warshop"
And he drifts in a boat
Called the Igloo
We pitter pat
As if biting, nawing
Into forgotten and feathered hats
And impotent impatience
That meditates between pain and fiction
Detailing type writer copy
Dialed in by the hand that feeds
And forgets
Me.

Warshop,
He's strict and strong
With iron for horns
A lip made up of daisies
Wilted in the corner of a bed frame
He flutters inside my heart
And whispers me weaknesses and faults
That I don't think is pointed out to me
All that often
Because a lighter radiance
Often shines brighter.

But with that flutter
That power
Comes the responsibility of haste
A fear of being replaced
Just to say:
Remember when you were 15
How beautiful you were then
Like a crisp magnolia flower
On a humid sun dried fried okra day
Just to swoop in and say
The pampas grass grows vast
In the sweet limber of quail egged fusion
Of the mornings you drank coffee and dreamed big.

Warshop
I think we might could be friends
But I'm still learning to pick and play with him
Like the string of my first Fender black and silver guitar
That I picked up so that a boy would like me
But had a natural knack for
Only later to trade it for paint
Words
Performance
Speech
Directing.

Warshop
The masculine wailing tiger inside of me
We often raise our swords
As if a bow and arrow could solve it
Or erase it all
But he's every bit the inside
And outside of me.