Nine One One Poem by Patti Masterman

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.