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The Poem I Couldn't Write
Last night I gave up again,
tossed the damned sheets
in the wastbasket,
turned out the lights
and went upstairs.
Brushing my teeth before
the bathroom mirror,
there it was,
the poem I couldn’t write.
When I frowned, it frowned.
When I smiled, it smiled.
It had all my thoughts,
all my feelings,
all my wrinkles—
exactly my age, and three
silver filings in its jaw.
When I switched off the light
it was gone.
When I switched it back on,
there it was,
speaking without words
to a wordless man.