The Broken in the Poet

When you really get down to it all of the poets are filled
with typos, even your favorites, yes yes, even the dog
of the poets, the dirty-haired scoundrel, yes yes even
the cloud of the poet, the Spring-loving mother yes yes
even the shoe of the poet, the hard-walking clinker, yes yes
even the arms of the poet, the two dangle-wings of the poet
even the hairs of the poet! Show yourself for what you are!
Even the fingers of the poet! Key-board clinkers of a poet,
yes yes, I'm sorry everyone, even the heart of the poet
that dirty, worn out blanket in the poet, and more than that
the sky of the poet, the hanging rain-filled sacks of the poet,
even the blood in the poet, the mangy dye-filled loves of the poet,
yes, yes, even the land of the poet, the root-pulled dirt plot of the poet,
yes. Even the sound of the poet,
even the gargle-in-the-back-of-the-bed of the poet. Even the eyes
of the poet, the hanging liquid sockets of the poet,
yes yes, even the poem of the poet, that trail-lined
broke-sky head of the poet, even the mother of the poet,
the bridge-worn, hand-clasped prayer of the poet. Yes,
even the words of the poet, the two-bit pull-back fear
of the poet, and even the books of the poet,
the shelves-filled Maine-line coast of the poet,
even the this of the poet, the scatter-run, finger-pressed
this of the poet.

                                                        Kallie Falandays