I’m surrounded by papers
and the phone might lunge
Yet I’m retreating to my bed
to write
To write even as the clock
stomps on toward the hour
I must move on.
To write—
to sigh relief.
I can write — I do have power
See, I’m stringing together words
on lines
as a necklace maker strings beads
on silk thread.
I write poems
as you pedal down the road
away from me.
I’m like a crying three year old
running after a caravan.
There’s a lot of dust
being thrown in my face
even rocks and sticks
but through all this
I keep running
with outstretched arms.
But there are also times
I sit with my arms crossed
probably sounding strong
but it's a pretend strength
that I can find
another mode of transportation
But I know too well inside
all I want is that caravan
that distance is shrinking away.