This to the motherless & less privilege
Ten too many relatives around my health status.
Which (health) will come by post, maybe.
Otherwise some preacher woman for healing bring her on.
Maybe she catch a music I never heard.
Maybe add up to a better smart than what I got..
In the meanwhile don’t tinkle at me cause
I drive taxi to the Marne.
When we full up with hurt soldier we drive straight
to house chock-a-block with mediumistic mechanism.
They get better quick. My doing.
For as nurse I’m arsistic.
For it’s my calling to bedpan empty & other.
Praise rude & task with screams, my modus operandi.
Asperger pie for lunch, brunch & supper, no exceptions.
Cuffs (not fleece-lined) to be worn at all times.
In other words: GES (Give ‘em shit).
For I won’t be toyed with.
For I’m not a ball tossed, rolled, sat on.
Grade A Titanic ballroom dancers is how I’ll have them.
If night on a town they’ll do rabbit for five, fox
for ten, maybe eleven if lucky. Where
are we going with this? Wouldn’t it be better
to just hang the whole lot (these lines) from some
attic rafter, let them gather dust, some great
grandson finding them in the year 3000, say, Hey
mom look at this (for example): For as nurse
I’m arsistic. What’s nurse? What’s arsistic? Sounds
like a good idea. Let’s do it. Done.
Thanks to Philip Hammial for permission to republish his poem, and to Kit Kelen, editor of The Wonder Book of Poetry at http://wonderbookofpoetry.org/philip-hammials-this-to-the-motherless-less-privilege/