poems about recovery

wondering
if the surgeon
replaced
the poem lobe
with mechanical parts
as well
the kind that seize up in cold
work or don’t work
at a whim
inflame from lack of use
or too much use
or just so much use that
whatever — ow!
it seems the poemflow
is missing its synovial fluid
like my knee
that I must pump back and forth
swinging (without the whee!)
until it decides to perform;
perhaps I must swing my head
shake it no
nod it yes
agree to some higher power
to let the poem in
YES. NOW. PLEASE.
It’s been sitting there
for a week
waiting to move
waiting to become
waiting to transform
waiting
like me
waiting