19/365

it’s not there is not enough to write about, it’s that there is too much.
each day i’m assaulted by an abundance of poems; each with its own agenda.

got me up against the ropes in the twelfth round—
cut above the eye. mouth guard chewed to a nub. nose broken. teeth loose.

wobbling, i search for a stool and my cut man, with some water and vaseline.
to offer me a respite. a few minutes to catch my breath. assess the damage.

but the jabs keep coming fast and hard. to the face. kidneys. even below the belt.
waiting for that final uppercut to dislodge this trite metaphor.

and knock me out.