changing the bark on a tree,
like marrying the Biblical Sarah,
seems like a ridiculous goal.

putting the rutabaga on a lathe
to turn it into a parsnip
seems pointless and a tad crazed.

ducking into the empty moat for a cigarette —
how long should we keep this up?
child, we’re smashed, we’re gassed, we’re

unwelcome as painters
in a glass walled room. cobweb tough,
kangaroo steady.  brothers of the needle,

sisters of the gearshift, children of the hammer.
what we do is nonsensical for a living, but not
for a life —  we were made to badger

the orderly whorl of creation’s fingerprints
into changing. how’s that been working out?
not well.  but try and stop us.  just try.

it will always come down to us
tending the kettle of crayons,
whether you like it or not.