April 10, 2018

the sunbather

I like to wait for a poem to come, not taunt it from the shadows where it's
counting its change, not force it from the last bench of the bleachers, where
it's looking for its jacket or the candy it may have dropped. When I'm writing,
I forget to check the time, forget the meter's running out, forget I'm getting older
and losing a little of my flexibility. As I wait for the lines to situate themselves,
I notice my breath lengthening, notice I am a little more curious about what to call
the particular shade that is this early April sky, notice all the things I am not noticing -
the terrible parking job I did at the Staples lot, the underwhelming dinner I clawed out
from the vegetable bin, politics and its bickering stepchildren. The page stretches out
like an island beach, and I am the sunbather, tilting my neck up for all I'm worth.