Nine One One

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight, It's serious: A writer of poems At such and such street, has a word Stuck in his throat. Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out. He can neither finish the poem or even Make a lick of sense right now. What to do? The medical experts confer over the two-way: I've seen this condition before, one says, wary, I think I would use the jaws of life. That takes too long, said another. I have a carpenters saw in my bag I keep on hand for just such occurrences. Though rare, it does happen. We will just remove the head, push the word Out of the way and reattach the head. Believe me it is much faster in the long run Otherwise it could progress on to Editors re-writes, poetry readings, Deadlines, and who wants all that? Poets really just want to write. The others are in agreement. Now they'll be able to get right to work Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death In crisis situations. In asylums, they employ lobotomies To the same result. For the rest of us, there are the interminable Religious sermons and services.