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Writing a poem
is like trying to recall
the forgotten flame of
your first college roommate;
that name never comes
until your dead
asleep and dreaming
(or not) and you wake, frightening
the person beside you, the cat
curled at your feet, yelling out
Denise or Diane or
Darcy for no reason
either of you can make out
in the dark. A poem is like that.
That midnight yelling, the sudden scream
unraveling in your hands.
You can only do your best
not to burn
your fingers as it leaves
your pen at such amazing speed,
tracking out a trail,
a blue shadow dug
into the brown bar napkin,
the unread bank statement,
the torn-open envelope.
That yell, that uncracked tough nut
of a thought, loitering around inside
you, knocking over trash cans,
causing low-level mayhem: you got it out.
Now: go find another.

Posted 11/27/11
Comments (1)
Author note: typo in line six on "your".
01/07/12 11:49pm