Purge

If I don’t write something soon l’Il burst

in a flurry of pent up frustration like a pigeon

popping from gastrointestinal inflation —

that could be me today, a feathery confetti.

If I don’t get these words out on the page fast

my head might crack, my car might crash —

spraying stardust and moonshine on the side

of the highway to high heaven. I must relieve

this aching urge for a poetic purge and

whatever

shouts come out shall be fodder for the birds.