When Time Clicks Upon A New Point Of View
if you think that poetry is free time,
that is, you only do it because you have nothing to do
you are wrong. It is at the top of the busy day
when pressure becomes too much
when you see the two hands of the clock
in a race
when not one hand knows how to stop
when it is about to have a broken knee
when the numbers become like
a gasoline meter
you stop a while
touch your neck
rub a little balm of balsam
or vick's vaporub
you massage what hurts
with the gentleness of your hands
you run your fingers
as though your vertebral column
is a piano
you make music now
so gently
you free your fingers from that tired body
face the monitor
free your mind
let loose the blue bird inside your mouth
and let it sing
now, you have it
it clicks
the words begin to come out
like hermit crabs from their borrowed houses
made of rugged shells
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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