Polish your shoes, poet!

I agree that words, phrases and epithets
trickle into your cerebellum and engineer
elaborate helical strings that squirm
in the void of immobile hours.

And I’d love to believe that after eons
these obscure strands would interwine
and fabricate cluttered images, and you'd sigh
with a solace for accomplishing a chef d'oeuvre,

Yet it baffles me, why coerce your poems
to give in to the whims of an evil wind, why accept
the fallacy of yielding to obscure omens

when you still have a house, a garden
to protect?

Why pretend to whisper with the papery leaves,
while all they can do is to infest your mind
with countless apparitions.

Have mercy on your verses, poet,
you’re treading on a path that’ll soon
lose its way to wilderness

and you’d again have to start a fire
with flintstones.

Better polish your shoes and step into
the highway instead.