Poetry is like a friend
with an impossible schedule;
beautifully there
when I am busy with other thoughts,
humming behind a wall
like a conversation in the next room.
Or like a deer I find in the forest
the moment before I
take out a camera,
moving with the same
grace an animal has
when it’s not being watched.
Poetry is probably best left alone;
camouflaged in the
background of my day
like a single dandelion
in a field of a thousand more,
unbothered until a gust
of wind picks it up
and places it
conveniently on my shirt.
I’m told that the right idea
is to treat poetry like a day of fishing -
to cast the line and
do nothing,
and hope that whatever
tugs ends up being
more than a heavy stick.
But poetry didn’t find me yesterday while walking the dog.
Or today,
while eating a meatball sandwich.
Maybe it will
check under the covers
while I’m not home
and I will come back
to a made bed.
Maybe it will find me tomorrow,
when it rains, and I’ll be
drinking tea out of a thermos.
Or maybe it will startle me,
mid-shower,
throwing back the curtains
while I am blinded by shampoo
and I will yell,
covering myself,
to come back later
at a more appropriate time.
