My dog is in the play pen.
My mind is a magician.
Me, I am not a poet
Me, I am a mechanic
Fixing errors in the typeset.
Broken but not dead yet.
Each inked up letter
Bruised and tired
Worn and weathered.
I haven’t figured out
My life yet.
Haven’t been out of time yet.
And my dog, he looks at me
And says, “hey your poetry
Is outside in the grass.
I stepped in it.”
Obi says
Do better.
Poet, do better.

So I sit and think
And let the time swing
Like a kid on a tire
Like a pendulum
Like a last dance with a dip

And realize this poetry is shit.
And medicine has dumbed it down.
And I am rusty like a tin man
Planted in
The ground
Wishing I could find
My bravery.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.