Like a three year old,
A poem will dodge nap-time.
I've seen one nestle itself between
Toppling blocks
and the couch
Were it thinks
I couldn't see its tail.
Poems create bags beneath my eyes
I stay awake
Staring down a work's glow green irises
from the slit under the dark door.
They rank up near the Bogey Man.
Chamomile tea won't tease the tension
out from tender moments.
When you thought a word or two would suffice,
think twice, or maybe even a million times
before the pen will print fluidity.
When poems find themselves finicky
I draw a warm bubble bath
Letting them soak a while
with crowns of bubbles on their heads.
Later, when I take them out
I realize
Poems are like children
Take them out.
Scrub them down
and love them.
They'll be okay.
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Fabulous- with the first and last stanzas especially, it's like you've put your personality in a tube inside a pen that pours out alongside the ink (though I guess keyboards have made that analogy irrelevant). And all that applies to all your other poems on here, for sure
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