Dorsey Craft

PUMPING SONNET

I have written many poems this week
with my tits poking through secret holes,
pump chugging vaguely like a sex toy,
its rhythmic robot square dance pulsing
on the desk next to white mugs, tin cans,
glass urn, all containers for liquids, as I am
obliged to nourish myself while outside
it is all wisteria and crabapple, grass wafting
in sun like some exhausting metaphor.
I have a million thoughts a day and none
of them want to be poems. You get used to it:
humming motor, baby blue but not a baby,
until you hardly hear it chanting at you,
saying fool space fool space fool space fool.

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