Nine One One

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight, 

It's serious: A writer of poems 

At such and such street, has a word 

Stuck in his throat. 

Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out. 

He can neither finish the poem or even 

Make a lick of sense right now. 

What to do? 

The medical experts confer over the two-way: 

I've seen this condition before, one says, wary, 

I think I would use the jaws of life. 

That takes too long, said another. 

I have a carpenters saw in my bag 

I keep on hand for just such occurrences. 

Though rare, it does happen. 

We will just remove the head, push the word 

Out of the way and reattach the head. 

Believe me it is much faster in the long run 

Otherwise it could progress on to 

Editors re-writes, poetry readings, 

Deadlines, and who wants all that? 

Poets really just want to write. 

The others are in agreement. 

Now they'll be able to get right to work 

Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death 

In crisis situations. 

In asylums, they employ lobotomies 

To the same result. 

For the rest of us, there are the interminable 

Religious sermons and services.