I am pursued by a poem.
It has yet to reveal itself.
It hides behind the old steamer trunk
in the shadowed corner of the basement,
waiting for the moment when
my hands are nervously poised above the
keys, my mind slogging through
the emptiness of the white page.
I only sense its presence, although I
am quite sure I heard it giggle in
the drooping branches of the apple
orchard; that was Thursday, or was
it Wednesday? When a leaf crunches
or a bird flutters, even in the pristine
silence of my imagination, I know.
But all I can do is wait. It has resisted
my nonchalance, rebuffed subtle
threats, scorned all pleading. Some
poems are like that. Rudely independent.
Tomorrow I shall feign illness to play
upon its sympathy. Not likely to make
much difference, though. Had it any
compassion at all, it would have
danced on the keys long ago.
As a last resort, I will flood the damp
basement with brilliant light, erasing
all the pockets of protection. But, what
if I shine my torch behind the dusty
trunk and nothing is there. Perhaps
I don\'t want to know. Maybe it\'s
better to sit on the garden bench
and wait. In time it will come. When
it\'s ready.