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.