"AGHHHH YA...GOT ME!"


I chase
the thought

only to see it
yet again...escape.

Dissolve back into
the nothing it came from.

My poetic footsteps
echoing in the attic of my mind.

Like trying to grasp
a ghost that laughs.

Language playing
hide and seek.

I, a bounty
hunter now

hunting down
a meaning

prepared to show it
no mercy.

Cornered
the word panics.

"Well, punk..."
I tell it

as
it
is.

"Do y feel lucky...
well do ya punk?"

The word eyes me
as I eye it

as if we are
in a Spaghetti  Western.

That chant of...
"we shall fight...we shall fight"

and that lonesome
Leone whistle.

"Do ya feel lucky enough
punk to be in a poem?"

I spit the phrase out
it pings in the spittoon.

The word tries to make good
its escape

but I imprison it
on the page

with an angry
clack of a typewritten

full stop
"Aghhhh ya got me!"

the word gasps
with its over the top act.

"Thanks fella!"
I smirk.

"That will be
the title."