POEM: Tin Man

I stare into a mirror and
Proclaim in a mahogany voice:
“My God, what am I doing?”

That is the first step to disconnecting the red cable of your car battery,
Which is how you learn to jump-start things, like a car.

Fritter your hands a little. Fuss a bit.
Come clean with yourself, in jellied tones,
To the stranger in your head that says bat-shit crazy things
that you hide whenever company comes over.
The one that drives the Porsche of your mind
with the hormonal rage of a teenager.

Today is made possible
By its frosted flakes and all the sexy risk,
as dangerous as a cat-stretch-puddle.

It waits for you to take a step.

Here are the instructions:

Turn off the light /
make faces at the mirror/
on a moonless night/
let clouds grip your throat/
when owls embed themselves into headless trees/
hoot and then holler/
speak in private syllables/
break the tie between you and the image of you. /
Hold onto things with mosquito feet /
Promise anything: to bake bread together,/
to love the same woman or man or men or women,/
to get a rescue dog together and fight over its name./
Go and unmake your bed, /
Go slip your feet into large shoes, /
and stumble./
Time to stand in the ruinous rain/
to chisel away at the oxidized parts /