Not often, but sometimes, a poem
comes like a pocketknife
laid in the palm of my hand.
I only have to thumb open the blade,
already honed and stropped,
and cut away what is not the poem
—thoughts that ramble and
words and phrases too weak
to speak for themselves.
I do enjoy your posts! Thank you once again.
A poet doesn’t need a scalpel when a honed and stropped knife is in his pocket.