I mistake it for
a clever game,
a kind of spoonerism,
switched letters
meant to lay cool
in your dry wit;
my mind plays tricks,
vowels shoot like spit.
Three well-hammered words
catch me from behind,
thrust tall, straight-up
without stammer.
tk/March 2012
Listen to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth read this poem:
image by Sarolta Ban
