She swore off thinking in iambic lines.
It worked.
She cleaned the cellar.
Throwing out the desiccated goldfish,
Vacuuming the debris left by silverfish,
Hearing Ferlinghetti imitating Ginsberg
In her now less fettered head,
But remaining unscathed
Secure in a cocoon
Of no iambic waffling
And
As a side effect
Of no more thinking
At all.

2021 April Poem-A-Day Challenge — 3 April