I'm Writing A Poem Poem by John W. McEwers

Ars Poetica
I am writing this poem.
I am, therefore I think,
I'm not a ghost in a meat coat,
save your soul searching
for more gullible Johns.

I am the meat.
I am my own miracle.
My soul is a puff of steam
from the first slice of the knife
in the crust of a pot pie.

My eyes are olives,
pimento pupils dilated,
straining in the dark light
of life's oven.

There is movement deep below,
a gurgling in the ductworks.
Is it proof of being?
Is it an out of body experience?

I imagine the bowels of the earth have such movements.
The planet John has had its quake.
I am therefore I think
I am writing a poem.