I own a full house
of chores and problems —

some mistakes, some missteps,
some mysteries — unstarted projects,
unopened boxes. Doors with misplaced
keys, others that won’t stay locked
and closed.

I ought to be working on them
as I always do, in a fever to get
something on paper, some vital truth;
ought to be rising with a poem in my fingers
like a key to one of those dusty locks; 

right now, though, I’m doing nothing —
rock-still amid it all, an oyster on ice, 
a stone full of joy, full of juice 
and slippery salt waiting to be 
opened and savored, 
though it will cause my death, and 
why not?
Every day I write though it kills 
because I can’t write a thing anymore
that I haven’t already written
every day forever, and no one
reads any of it though they love
having me around to bring out
in front of company, 
to say of me:

Remember?
This one used to be a feast, 
now is a delicacy 
not to be missed
though his best days are over: 
cherish him
for what he was.

C’mon.  

Stick that blunt little blade in deep
and split me, spill me,
drink me, put me aside when done.
It’s nothing unexpected.
I long ago accepted
that I’ll never be anything
but a means
to someone else’s end,
and that’s fine.
I’m good stuff; don’t feel
bad when you toss my shell —

if I’ve learned anything in life,
it’s that I was built
to be shucked.