I'd planned to let my poetry be today,
take a pass, give it a break,
it being Wednesday ‘n’ all,
and my only idea had been to play with that,
but it couldn't get traction with my Muse,
its sophomoric connotations, you see,
embedded on my hard drive...
We're all seniors now
thanks to germ warfare--
those of us, anyway, who still read
strings of words longer than Tweets.
But for any of you Tweeters,
pushed by the title this far:
you won't find that wonderful word
anywhere else in this poem,
it being so insensitive it bespeaks
the emergence of our primal selves,
mine, anyway, and if you deny yours
I will secretly assume you are lying.
Oh, those (our) rough and ready
primal selves, marqueed by our
scalawag-in-chief, and the lowest
asswipe speculators...oops my primal
peeking out, for which I'd apologize were
we not sick of its la-di-da alternate name.
What’s that? Can’t get enough?
Toilet paper toilet paper toilet paper…
toilet paper toilet paper...say when...
Funny, I feel my primal rearing up
except for that. I still say “toilet paper”
even all alone, to myself.
But that other word,
the one in the title,
I use it constantly, cursing everything, ALOUD.
Cursing typos as they appear on the screen,
cursing my fingers for making the typos,
cursing my hijacked wifi for blinking out…
Cursing solely with that one nasty word,
and usually with “you” attached.
Happy Hump Day!