I haven’t written a poem in five years, three days and a minute. I know this because of the last time I did. It was a cold March night not different than most I’d just burned a batch of my finest French toast The lights had gone dim, the power went out And all that was left was my ink and my doubt It would come back I should know, it always did After some mom admonished their kid Another fork in another socket. So I pick up my pen and pull out this paper Flick up my knees and do a small caper Writing’s not easy, at least in the dark I can barely think of a starting remark. Nevertheless I begin straight and true I scribble down lines number one and two They’re really simple, no problem at all It’s the rest you’re reading that make me feel small Each passing line has a problem anew None find their place in time or on cue. It’s frustrating now, a real pain in the back Come on words, cut me some flack! The lights come back on and my toast reappears, Maybe they’ll start up my cycle of gears. I nibble on one, jot down a letter Oh yes, we’re getting better! They increase in number, three and then four Then five, six, a hundred more I’m feeling it now, I know what to say Even the rhymes know where they lay Nothing is left to luck or to chance Like a snap lyrical free-flowing dance I leap, I sing, and so the poem too Together we are one of the few; The lights go black again. I lose my place. Oh, well, I guess that’s enough Every five years isn’t too bad, just fine— Maybe I’ll wait six more next time. ***