The workshop writers are into dissection.
Eager surgeons, they cut and hack the body
of my poem without offering anesthesia.
Helmet-lit miners, they pickaxe verse
searching for gold nuggets,
the tabletop strewn with flesh and scree.  

I remember a country porch and a garden view
where I sat with a yellow lined pad.
At the feeder, phoebes and blue jays scattered
sunflower seeds and millet onto my pages.
Groundhogs snuffled among my words
while the dog barked his point of view. 
Deer snorts echoed through the lead of my pencil.
Sometimes the sun flickered ideas between the lines.  

Now the workshop group is driving
my poem through the carwash,
brushing and soaping and waxing.
Trash collectors, they rake the leavings
and roll their bins out to the curb.
I wish they had given me a doggie bag instead
so I could nibble on the trimmings,
later, when my heart gets hungry.
By moonlight, I could gnaw the fatty bones.