Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.
It’s been 97 days since my last confession.
(- confession, +poem;
                         – 97 days, + five minutes)

It started innocently enough:  All month,
I’ve written poems about
                                                    (and used the word too frequently)
Dreams.  So I wanted
to shake it up, you know?  Be less
predictable, more
tangible.  Preempt the muse
                                                     (so to speak).
I began:

             ***  ***   *** 
                 Let’s Do it in Reverse

                         “I shook the softening chalk of my bones…”
                                                              –      Theodore Roethke

                Instead of chasing dreams, tonight,
                                 let’s try something new—

                Let’s gather chalk
                                 of our bones—

                relax the lines,
                lay out our curves
                on the ground…
                                                     (hard stop, here)

             ***  ***   *** 

at which point, as is my nature,
from time to time, I stopped
to read, and to judge, and to edit
what I had, so far. 

            Praise Jesus and pass the jelly!
            I mean, thank goodness I did.

Roethke stared at me in shock.
My spirit guides burst into laughter.
The Muse was…more than amused.

Freud, my dear old Freud, just crossed his arms
            with a knowing smirk. 

And I decided, right then and there,
perhaps it was time to close the laptop
and get some sleep 

                                    (or at least hide my phone)