I had to write this poem
I’m a prisoner of my pen
Somehow the alliteration
kept my rhyme a prisoner
and the meter became a leader. A

stanza bridges a gap turning on its heels
runs a mock when a word love slicks
down its hair and comes a courting.
Even the ending refuses to end and
goes on and on like my mother talking .

This poem without a name begins
to call itself me walks right over my
body as if it is a right of way, bows
and, laughing without a breath stops.
So I look for a refill.