Hard Poem

I like the work under construction

I don’t like the easy poem

That falls into the palm of my hand. No.

I like that first idea

That is born when I’m in the line of the bakery

In the crowded supermarket

In the hustle and bustle.

I like the wayward, elusive thinking

That shows up, then goes way

And comes back when it’s time.

I really like the hard poem

Worked, scribbled, sweaty,

Until it gives up

Pitying my affliction.

I like the work under construction

Of the victory won and deserved

Of the maddening boiling mind.

Maybe I’m not a poet

Just a restless soul

Who always carries a pencil in the hand

And a poem to be made inside my heart.