yesterday i had a poem
as i sat sipping vodka
and cranberry juice. it
was a nice one full of
language us poets are
drilled on: i held it all in
my mind: seeing each
line break, my laptop
too far to grasp, my
phone rang a bit late
i answered and heard
my daughter's voice -
the poem moments away
from escape - my mind
had to decide - i let the poem go, i can
still feel its resonance
if i tried i may ease it
back but it has no need
of me: it arrived in perfect
form in perfect pitch, tone
and i ponder at its ability to
escape so easily - why do
some poems demand the page
and some poems are ok with just me
