Photo by Jess Bailey
My Little Friends
Kate Maxwell
My little friends.
I send them with a click, a pat
whisper, with a clench-toothed smile
You bloody words perform, or I will twist
and wring the guts out of every inky letter
then shut the laptop down.
Walk away to brood.
Dead poets are dead, leave them be
I tell myself while labouring
a reading, fawning over someone
else’s words and trying to discern
why mine lie down and show
their soft bare tummies
Here scratch me! kick me!
Now I just believe in publication
if I have to buy it, lie it, or change my name
and leanings to something with more edge
I will. Or limp around without my punctuation
crutch. I’ll do it. Just not for this poem.
So, I sit and wait for words to return
often travelling with a few new ones
Thank you but we cannot place your work.
We hope your piece finds a good home.
But I’m not running a bloody shelter
for homeless prose, so I give
the whimpering mongrels
one more chance, scrub them
down, remind them how to beg
before I send them out the door again.
Now back to coffee shops and writers’
meetings, listening to portentous
speech, pretending to relate
and grooming words whatever
colour and style is going down.
I write myself a Post-it note
then stick it to the wall
I look forward to seeing more of my work
Kate Maxwell
My little friends.
I send them with a click, a pat
whisper, with a clench-toothed smile
You bloody words perform, or I will twist
and wring the guts out of every inky letter
then shut the laptop down.
Walk away to brood.
Dead poets are dead, leave them be
I tell myself while labouring
a reading, fawning over someone
else’s words and trying to discern
why mine lie down and show
their soft bare tummies
Here scratch me! kick me!
Now I just believe in publication
if I have to buy it, lie it, or change my name
and leanings to something with more edge
I will. Or limp around without my punctuation
crutch. I’ll do it. Just not for this poem.
So, I sit and wait for words to return
often travelling with a few new ones
Thank you but we cannot place your work.
We hope your piece finds a good home.
But I’m not running a bloody shelter
for homeless prose, so I give
the whimpering mongrels
one more chance, scrub them
down, remind them how to beg
before I send them out the door again.
Now back to coffee shops and writers’
meetings, listening to portentous
speech, pretending to relate
and grooming words whatever
colour and style is going down.
I write myself a Post-it note
then stick it to the wall
I look forward to seeing more of my work