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.
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