Cris de Borja

Words, I thought, would tumble out

when I opened the door to them.

So I took a pen and readied paper

but there was breakfast with hot coffee

and so I talked, instead, for hours.

It’s fine. Isn’t the way to write a poem

through the experience of living my hours?

Whatever comes, no one is waiting

for me to hand over a poem.

Well, no one expects one, except my future self

I suppose.

But I think

I think she’ll understand

what happened on the way.

5-10-2020

Tagged: poem