This is for two friends of mine who asked me how I come up with ideas. Frankly, I have no idea so if I answered, it was "off the fly".
I throw down poems onto a page, and look at them fondly. Some glare at me, others take a swift bite out of my neck. Trying for attention. I know it is not personal, so I let it slide. Enthusiastic poetry always starts out with the words “dancing and prancing” which is tedious now, but Trixie is stuck there. Do I retire her? Fire her? Inspire her? Aspire to guide her gently? It is a quandary. Rhymes I love, but they take a bit more work, for I am compulsive enough to want each line to have exactly the same amount of syllables. Often an impossible feat. And yet, here I am, throwing tally marks all over my paper. Someone asked me how I come up with ideas. They land in my lap, on my shoulders, they hit me in the petootsie. When I least expect it some of my most unlikeable co-workers will run in to confide something, and voila. An idea is born. I have an affinity toward making fun of co-workers silently, stealthily, behind their backs. Or in front of their faces. It matters not a whit. They never see themselves.
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