15 Dec 2015 – Calling

What point in saving
every poop like Howard Hughes
in clotted stanzas?
Somedays even garden hearts
become a catbox,
and it’s not your calling, kid,
to spread that freely.

So what’s a Poet
if he’s not Coyote’s kin –
cold crowbar wielding –
come to wrench your iron-bolt door
clean off its hinges,
busting open tidy tombs
to let the light in?