May 10, 2021 § Leave a comment
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
But I think
I think she’ll understand
what happened on the way.