When It Comes, Again

I can never write a poem when I am told to write a poem. It comes randomly like blankets of snow on Christmas Day spraying skunks, no jars of tomato juice ex-boyfriends begging for another chance a boomerang of feelings beautifully unforced streams of dreams, blurs of babble, exhausted emotion. It leaves abruptly like the color of leaves, the lost of oxygen spinning rooms, hibernating thoughts writer's block, alive from the hiatus reuniting pen to page. The words are the only thing that is indefinite.