[Mister Saint]: 79.Poetry.Writing without Intention

A Poem Without Intention


A keyboard taps the tune
Creation.
The poet knows the song it sings,
it rings
with floolaflit
that any fool can fit
into a meaning.
Her glasses gleam in shades of milk
as typeface purbulates across the lenses
backwards, blinking cursor dragging
poetry along the page, she thinks.

A coin is sometimes tails.
In fact she'd flipped the flat and shiny pebble,
getting tails, which means she bwent a sonnet.
(Heads meant bweening limericks, but she'd tired of those.
Her notebook's empty pages
long ago went pithy gray with written Heads.)

Her stringy little fingers
beat the plastic keys
like treeky stomping
shlups in mud;
often, and without much effort.
She tries to type from the heart;
but hands work better.

A sonnet it is,
in the technical sense.
Octet, sestet, delete-tet.
Quatrain, couplet, done.
And that's enough
to satisfy her audience;
her.