This is my machinery,

The machinery of poems.

It clatters and jerks

And has to be oiled.

It works in spurts.

Nuts and bolts,

Pins sheer off.

A giant roller crashes to the ground.

The horrible sound is ear-splitting,

And my first thought is what my dad will say.

Is this something I can fix?

Or must repairs be paid for

To the men in town,

Or the man upstairs?

But even with the power-take-off disengaged,

Poems are flowing,

Teasing my hydraulic lifts.

It doesn’t matter now

What anyone might say.

I am become the eater of poetic worlds

And have sprung to Life

And the good pleasure of my Maker.

-jenn