Today I couldn't write this poem

Sorry, but today I couldn’t write a poem

because today I had to do the life,

do the clock and do the clothes,

the drive, the work,

the stairs, the rooms,

do the food, do the phone.

Today I couldn’t write my poem

because I had to get out back

and throw a stick for my lab once,

twice, three-hundred and fifty times,

I had to throw that slobbery branch

until it disintegrated into a scatter of mulch.

And today I couldn’t write that poem

because of my conference with a bunch

of unexpected sunshine,

because I sat on that top step, on mute,

not getting into words

what a glorious show that star was giving.

Today I couldn’t write any poem

because I lingered too long

on the deck of a glass bridge

trying to discern what plaintive tune

the wind was humming below my feet.

Sorry, again – today I couldn’t write this poem

because last night I sat up late reading

that in order to write a poem

you have to make sure to show up

to appointments with your own psyche.

I haven’t kept any unnecessary appointments

with myself for quite some time now.