Some days I write with a thick pencil,
ham fisted in a Big Chief tablet,
barely literate - smudged and smeared,
unwieldy, childish prose.
Every now and again,
I write with a scalpel,
All bloody and pain wrecked -
words excised, still dripping.
On Fridays, I write with a rain gutter,
catching the words as a down pour,
sluicing them in the general direction
of a downspout, wet and soggy.
More often, I write with a plow.
Heavy lifting, dirt worked
in the hot sun, sweaty seeding
hoping for something besides a weed.
Most days, I write with a shovel,
heaving sticky piles of steamy manure,
from one plop
to the other.
On a very rare day,
no matter my device,