The Poem Fights

At this quiet moment my arms flail,
adopts the nature of palms in combat with
Florida hurricanes. Fingers slice the air. An
Osprey’s wings and talons sink into a bass,

extracts it from water. The bass struggles just like
my fingers on the keyboard.

The poem fights,
though it’s been caught. Survival instincts
battle to keep it swimming in the brackish water.

At this maddening moment my cat has conspired
with the poem. She wants me to rub her
long tortoiseshell fur. The mats in her coat
are like the knots that the poem ties my

brain’s matter in. The music hasn’t been much
help. Either has the bottle of Shiraz.

All these pleasures conspire
with the poem.

They’ve got it in for me.