How can I convince them to return?
Don't they know how much I need them?
It's all the anticipation for inspiration keeping them away--
they must be hibernating, storing up to burst loose in a million tiny explosions of color and sound and life.
The words must have their own makeshift bedroom with a mattress on the floor
in an unfamiliar house in a stranger-filled city
that still manages to feel like home,
at least enough to re-charge before the next great adventure.
But I want them now!
I will force them out however I can:
into neatly divided lists and reminders on post-its--
they really hate it when I confine them so, but it's their own fault for being so useful--
I will torture them with ABABC rhyme schemes of love I haven't felt,
and then I will copy down lyrics to the beautiful old songs my mother sang--
those songs have been everywhere lately, but it's my own fault for being so nostalgic--
I will cover my journal pages with doodles to make the words jealous,
to make them return to reclaim their territory.
And now what do you know,
the only way to make the words come back is to write about them in the quiet of a sleeping house,
such self-satisfied, nocturnal little creatures--
no wonder we get along so well.
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