This poem has not been written
but rests between the synapses
when words alone cannot
carry the weight of the heart
This poem mocks you
as you try to arrange syllables
and make them march in a lovely
line like a battalion of ballet dancers
leaping and arching their backs
as they carry one another
center stage to illustrate
your constant exclamation,
"..darling, I love you,
won't you be mine
til the end of time...?"
This poem will come to you
before you finish
your first cup of coffee
and patted your pants pocket
to make sure the car keys are still there,
this poem will marinate while
the neighbor who
is still partying since last night
yells the lyrics to
Tell Laura I Love Her
The stairs will seem
to sag in the middle
and the clouds
will be the color of
an oilman's rag
that morning
before this poem gets written.
It will be that kind of day when
no one tips their hat,
the people you pass
will seem to be
sinking into their overcoats
as they cross the street
against the light.
Then , during lunch,
you'll write your poem,
this poem,
or maybe you won't,
it's not up to me to say.
This is poem hasn't been written yet
and remains a notion
residing in random sparks
along the cerebellum trail.
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