Polemic

Today my body does not want to write poetry.
It wants to scrape every rind of intestine,
stomach, those old wrung-out towels the kidneys –
blindly, for these eyes of mine are no good

at seeing what’s inside, that’s why man created
ultrasounds – because of a couple fat glasses,
Red Label Johnny Walker has sprung my system
into a search and seizure, a lost parking validation

and us at the gate: my body pulls at its pocket seams
and picks at fuzz; junks the white toast and water
I dutifully ate this morning, including the multivitamin
with extra vitamin D the midwife suggested

since repeated tests show I’m low – finally my body
and I in accord after years of chemical warfare
and guerrilla tactics on both sides – but my desire
to its availability now reversed: my eggs are too busy

washing their hair to come downstairs for some fool
who knows better than to drink a spirit’s level of whiskey,
even as I circle yesterday’s date in a bright red 0 –
no, it doesn’t want to write poetry today,

so I make a show of patting down my seat, rattle maps
and manuals, engine idling and both of us thinking
I probably left the ticket with its timestamp
at a restaurant somewhere in my twenties.