Long(ing)

Wigs, old movies, people doing
tedious things, and
boring.

Too much work for
too little gain.

Razored and tooth-brushed, I
seek creams in tubes on top of
others, on top of another.

The current state pretends
toward the mega, the ultimate – but,

in wanting to know,
really, all is here in shape and form,
identical to the form and shape
otherwise.

Names of people, references to
places, and the defining of things – poetry
does not make.

If that’s the case,
what does poetry make?

Hypertensive, hypothermic, and
every degree in between;
Sandberg’s “Ten Definitions…;”
Ink on paper, or
blood on the sand; A child with
screwed-up eyebrows, conjuring
screwed-up, imaginary
friends.

This list is, with notable
exceptions,
exhaustive.

Without a Doubt

Scott Schuer