That poem that won't happen
It’s been carried through continents.
Stuck to my side and my psyche,
engraving its stench with its syllables.
Cruelly, deleting me, when I try to
recycle its dips dots and scribbles that
ping through insomnia, in all of
those vertical places.
Unleashing its verbs, nouns and
adjectives, undangling its participles.
It peeks to pop up when I’m grounded
in dialogue’s dribble, wishing for air
and a place to just leave the convenience
store and write it already.
The one you can’t slip off the pen,
forever, in plaguing both you and your
muse, stalling it utero.
Your masterpiece poem, that won’t happen.