All week I was trying to get to the office
where my poems are tacked to the wall, waiting,
burning. I barely made it there Friday morning
for two short hours, what with the yadayadayada
that fills up a week.
The poems waited and waited, like hungry kids
what's for dinner/where's my shirt/get out
they were whiny and I don't blame them, stuck
on a strange wall alone all week with no one
looking after them. But I got there and looked
and fiddled and wrote and looked and they burn
and that's good.
1 comment:
They wait, for sure ... ripening, and yes, a little singed around the edges. I hope they are talking amongst themselves in smoky voices...
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