MAKE USE OF IT

(poem after Raymond Carver)


Make Use Of It

The secret-sore, is it
your kick-bruised foot?

The cricket’s song
in the rim of darkness.

The bad-breath of radio
chitterchat. All of
it is yours, yours just
as Ray Carver said.

Yours to make use of.

The restless tapping
of your inane feet.

That bump of pain
in this worn hip.

The blanch ink spill
of fluorescence
under the metred lights.

Make use of it.

The articulated bent
long-legs of a huntsman
spider on the wall…

that invaded feeling
of your home world.

The feeling of grit
under barefeet on
the unswept floor.

The unshed tear.

Make use of it.


15 Feb 2010 © Wayne David Knoll