A mob of my lousy old poems and unfinished thoughts stormed my place last night. They demanded deeper thought, better editing, and completion. I offered them blood transfusions; brain, heart, and limb transplants; checked their ears, noses and throats for infection. With a rubber paperweight, I tapped their knees for reflexes. Once they’d been brought back to life, my old poems began to repopulate my senses, taking extra care to fortify the areas where words had once failed me.