A Little like Constipation

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A Little like Constipation

Backed up entirely with something
weighty in the hollow part, something
surely big enough to fill the bowl 
and then the world, one starts to feel

a certain desperation as they navigate
their daily life. “Out out, damned spot!”
as Lady M. expressed the sentiment, 
and I am such a one who understands 

her inability to cleanse a thing, to rid
herself of that which confiscates her rest 
and weighs her down like iron shoes. 
It most reminds me of the prophet who 

relentlessly implores a turning to 
the light, who rips his scraggly beard
in anguish for the lost until he finds
that sluggish orifices grow so tight 

that nothing enters in regardless of
his sweating rants. Like him, I’m left
to either sip a cup of coffee patiently,
praying for a miracle to come my way,

or push until my head explodes.  
I've found, the way the weary poets have, 
that pushing tends to do the job
quite well, if I can be content with just
          a drop.

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