January 3, 2025The Yips
I play pickleball—a lot
can’t get my serve in
the inkwell is dry
my poems are all shitty
I fail again and again
someone says: just hit it in
I bang my bloody head against
the writer’s block
I think: great fucking suggestion
I whale at the ball
a word thief hovers
in the attic of my mind
the landing zone is a postage stamp
the ball sprays everywhere
silent as a witness
my words are anesthetized
on a Tuesday in June
I go to a yard sale
buy a statue of The Virgin Mary
plant it in my garden
play pickleball the next day
miss my serve
there is a short sharp cry
a coyote in my head
from #86 – Poetry Prize