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.