Poem for the days gone.

I was absent and I’m sorry.  

My poems were absent and – they're not.

They really don’t give a shit

about the where and the when.

About timeliness and regularity,

they are ambivalent as hell.

They wouldn’t get off the couch

if Hillary were running for president.

I told my tardiness to a friend.

My tardiness: it did not end.

Still I thought the poems might come –

from guilt or boredom or curiosity.

I told my friend, I am weary of poems.

I prefer not to use words

at all. Prefer to

sit with them in silence: hear them.

Oh for a poem that is not mine;

for words I can follow and

leave myself behind. They are always

mine and not mine. There’s no

getting away.