Written for the fun of it.
Writer's Guests
Worry, would you kindly take
a number, row yourself to a seat,
maybe there, next to Doubt.
I’m afraid today I have no
time and I’m writing.
Here, let me double you
into lining
like this: =D =D
into wide-mouthed, long-eyed D's
gobbling the very air,
not out of hunger, but to press
the engine of something as irrepressible
as joy. Don't! Worry!
J chews, then oy swallows.
Not a bar of song,
not a sliver of an almond’s worth
of joie, Freude, or Japanese ureshii
not a crumpled hat of a fortune cookie.
Joy has turned into a coffee cup,
bacon-stripped to look like marbled
chocolate before it sizzles and melts.
Just for a minute,
look at overindulgence
swelling like a greedy frog
rolling out a sticky tongue
to snare the fat flies, still sluggish
from winter.
Look at Parsimonious
sniffling and staggering
in the lasso of its stingy silhouette.
Look at Busy
snaring l – until it snarls,
disables Linger and Love.
That’s when Worry’s sharp elbows
dig in for a feast.
Something doubles.
Let’s reverse.
Doubt sits next to Dao, and starts to list
ten thousand things:
bee stings, measles, barbed wire fences,
conch shells, kittens, tooth-fairy rewards,
Easter eggs, laundry, daily expenses,
costumes, school plays, certificate awards,
dances, weddings, travels and chances
moon phases, star gazing, classroom boards…
Dao says nothing, which makes Doubt
squirm just a bit closer to Worry
until we shake it plural -- no
worries
left
turned, no doubt, inside out.
Any other guests?
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