What good are words that serve, compliant little
words going about their business with a smile
and a bow? Tonight they wait on me, stand waiting
as I sate myself, help me to my bed, leave
and laugh, for I have won nothing, done nothing.
Give me words that fight back. Give me words
that use my words against me, sparring, scarring,
words that knock me down. I’ll go ten rounds
with such words. I’ll get up off the canvas
and go again. That wasn’t a ten-count. I’m good.
What good are words unless we struggle? What good
am I, if I only let them serve and smile and leave?
Stephen Brooke ©2019