Because there’s nothing else to do. 

Because my brain is a horse

and needs regular walking or else

it overheats, dies.

Words are sponges, blue and holey, 

neat swiveled foams

that come to mop my brain cool

and when they’re done they have 

its heat, its juice, its steam and stench of manure,

and they heap

wetly

on tables and shelves—

so many swabs of thought

in some Lab for Perplexities of Girlhood.

Someday, maybe, they’ll be examined. 

Someday, perhaps, explained.