Page 16 - flying stones

algorithms of a modern hand-pump
toothpaste dispenser

good poets, there you stand,
upright, defiant,

primed to pump a yet unfixed mix

of antiseptic and brightening gel,
to deliver sensual, pristine beauty,

exuding confidence with an irreverent

vigorous smile.

at my age, my tube lacks rigor,

lays twisted and squeezed of its whimsical use.
my bite is indentured to decades of injury,

grinding chores and inevitable decay.

my advice for writing poems is this:

do not delay, think with your heart,
feel with your brain, un-reign your play.

when you are old and less than game,
and wisdom confines you to mundane truths,

you will look back on these halcyon days
and willingly give your last chipped tooth

to recapture – with the rapture of one inadvertent,

undeserved, itty bitty insight -
the sparkle of your youth.