A poem I just wrote about not writing a poem

Could I But Die a Thousand Deaths

(An epic poem waiting to be written

one line at a time,

in the space between the washer and the dryer

in the crack between the counter and the stove

in the gap where the cabinet doors don’t

hang straight

Between the ring and the recorded call.)

For quality assurance purposes, this poem is being monitored.

This helpless poem must be written against its will.

This poem will have to phone itself in — sick,

Or just stay on the line and wait to be written.

There are three poems ahead of it, but it can be assured that it will be the next to be served.

This poem is important to me.

I appreciate its patience.