Because there’s nothing better to do.
Because my head is a horse
and if it comes to an abrupt stop
it overheats, can die.
Words are sponges, blue and holey,
neat swiveled foams
that mop a brain cool
and when they’re done they have
its heat, its juice, its steam and shit,
and they heap
on tables and shelves—
so many swabs of thought
in some Lab for the study of Growing Up.
Someday, maybe, they’ll be examined.
Someday, perhaps, explained.