Shingles and roof deck haphazardly torn off,
Rafters, studs, joist: a big pile of splinters;
Yet solid oak planking held out like a treasure –
Lifted carefully one-by-one so as to recycle;
Old stoves, plumbing tossed aside for a yard sale:
They’re cream-puffs, I swear, and need no repair
Then Jack Hammer hits on the last of my structure,
Bashed basement, left dirt holes for my foundation.
No valuable artifact stayed ’round for archeological digs.
From sidelines, shears came from the Gardener’s shack,
Not held by a pruner but a butchering fool.
To the quick he cut quickly; sap ran and then oozed:
Stunned stalks stood fearful as bloomless buds fell.
Then tackled he Rhyme
And made measures change Time;
In sync, waltzing Rhythm edged far from its bar
Till conductors nearly shunned its passionate Beat.
And stole laurels from the fire, meant to scent poets’ labors,
Broke songs into shards, scattered words with nonsequiturs!
Now voiceless, almost gagged, this poet’s throat
Crossed a narrow bridge o’er the old Bards’ Moat.
He chopped off my toes all the way to the knees,
Sawed fingers and elbows to make shoulder nubs:
Once nimble limbs morphed to thalidomide stubs
He cursed the slow kill, for the torso had issues
What organs sustained life; essential, what tissues?
Both kidneys and liver he listed, not brain,
His sword wryly mocked all that shyly remained.
My eyes and navel, dismissed on the floor,
Designed quaint reprisals and attacks by metaphor.
My shape once charmed hearts of voices unheard.
My motherly tones hummed in sleepy babes’ ears.
My images stirred breasts; yet none dared to share back.
My letters formed words that gave perfect slant,
I now hope cutting-floor edits ‘ll regroup old truths