The spoken word
is a w i l d thing,
It around,
leaps
ping-pongs from
tongue to cheek
knocks down
teeth
on its way
out,
shows up a little
mangled, rough-
housed.
I prefer it tame,
locked safely
behind thick
pen-stroke bars
in a prison of
crisp, cream
leaves or
LED screens.
Then, with a
whip
crack it’ll
jump through
hoops, balance
on
a
leg, ride
elephant poems
to a few cheers.
I swear it
ain’t mistreatment;
you see,
words
keep
their
meaning
when
written
up
tight.