If it takes me all day,



I will get the word freshened out of this poem.







I put it in the first line, then moved it to the second,



and now it won’t come out.







It’s stuck. I’m so frustrated,



so I went out to my little porch all covered in snow







and watched the icicles drip, as I smoked



a cigarette.







Finally I reached up and broke a big, clear spike



off the roof with my bare hand.







And used it to write a word in the snow.



I wrote the word snow.







I can’t stand myself.





