Take these words away
from me, realign the lines
to suit Chef de cuisine’s
new-fangled recipes.
These stale words fail
today’s goals, empty
out my backpack
hold a yard sale.
In this box place
in summer oak shade
penny each
monosyllabics.
All the abstract words
dump in the free box
put it on the curb
to be recycled.
In another box place
each to its own card
all the poems, with the
proceeds we’ll eat pizza.
The problem it seems lost
downstream strewn words
sans plugs or hubs portless
boats in this electro storm.
The Coming of the Toads 