Song of Weights and Measurements

For there is a dram. For there is a farthing. A bushel for your thoughts. A hand for your withered heights. For I have jouled along attempting to quire and wisp. For I have sized up a mountain’s meters, come down jiffy by shake to the tune of leagues and stones. For once I was your peckish darling. For once there was the measure of what an ox could plow in a single morning. For once the fother, the reed, the palm. For one megalithic year I fixed my gaze on the smiling meniscus, against the gray wall of graduated cylinder. For once I measured ten out of ten on the scale of pain. For I knew that soon I’d kiss good-bye the bovate, the hide and hundredweight. For in each pinch of salt, a whisper of doubt, for in each medieval moment, emotion, like an unruly cough syrup bottle, uncapped. For though I dutifully swallowed my banana doses, ascended, from welcome to lanthorn, three barleycorns at a time, I could not tackle the trudging, trenchant cart. For now I am forty rods from your chain and bolt. For now I am my six-sacked self.