How I Wrote this Poem
I’m afraid I’m going to be sitting here till morning,
trying to put a scattering of words in a package called a poem.
Maybe the good fairy will come tiptoeing between my neurons,
picking ideas off the shelves like a Christmas shopper
at a well-stocked shopping center,
choosing thoughts as light and strong as aluminum
or soft and comfortable like a quilt and pillow,
piecing together this and that like a dogmatic heretic,
stacking metaphors like Egyptians building pyramids,
willing to rebel against rhyme and reason,
attentive like a concierge looking for a big tip
and then the end stands before me like an open door.
I pocket dreams, fold up my feelings like a camper’s cot,
and run through.
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