If I have nothing nice to say, it’s best
to shut my mouth and keep my fingers still,
to give the arrogance a little rest
and bide with patient attitude, until
a concept comes and wisdom feels no force.
But I’m addicted to the daily thrill
that I derive from writing. So of course
I’ll work this pen as if it were a drill.
And though the tool can be employed to pull,
I’ll push with it to carve the space to screw
around with language, bring to bear my full
vocabulary, turning till a true
conceit takes hold and purchases a place,
cavorting in the room behind my face.