Wednesday, April 30, 2008

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.


girl_gone_thread_wild said...

I sew appreciate this poem you have written. How true, how persuasive...

I can't help but to make my own lists about what lists I need to make.


Happy day to you, it's been way too long since I visited last. I'm so glad I stopped in to read this. ~Monica :)

Life Made Creations said...

Love this. And isn't it true how our art gets "put on hold" while we do the other {more important} duties of the day. More time for art, less time for housework, I say!