Because there’s nothing else to do.
Because my brain is a horse
and needs regular walking or else
it overheats, dies.
Words are sponges, blue and holey,
neat swiveled foams
that come to mop my brain cool
and when they’re done they have
its heat, its juice, its steam and stench of manure,
and they heap
on tables and shelves—
so many swabs of thought
in some Lab of the Perplexities of Girlhood.
Someday, maybe, they’ll be examined.
Someday, perhaps, explained.