詩 The Map to Tanagra

A word on its own can only begin to describe
One hand behind its back, in chain mail mittens
Grabbing for needles in the haystack of my feelings

A one-legged cat trying to bury turds on a frozen pond
A long-tailed cat in a room full of rockingchairs
A sense of impending doom

I long to be Darmok or Jalan at Tanagra
But instead of Temba, his arms wide
I wait for Godot

I grasp at the feeling
On the smooth countertop
Slicker'n snot on a doorknob
In my chain mail mittens

Like I been rid hard and put away wet
Tired as a turtle, dog my rabbits
Coming out of my skin
The walls closing in

I ain't got no more idea than a hog

Metaphors, analogies, and anecdotes to the rescue
There is no dictionary
There is no map through the labyrinth
You have to be willing to struggle
You have to want to understand

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April is National Poetry Writing Month