Good Enough

I don't know if I’m good enough.

Oh, I can string the words

like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls 

along a silken line...

or foment strong, heavy words like

boots that march in bloody mud

or hot, shivering sand.

I can spit them out

when they cloy.

I can bite them back 

when

 like silent razors 

they slice swift and clean.

But every day...

every day when the word count rises

when writing’s the thing and not the play

when words must stick together in factory formation

to add up, to bring forth, to produce...

maybe I’m not good enough for that.