Hard Poem

Maybe I’m not a poet, just a restless soul

“Courtesy of the Author”

I don’t like the easy poem
That falls in the palm of the hand. No.
I like that first idea
That rises in the bread row
In the crowded supermarket, in the bustle
I like shy, elusive thinking
That shows up and goes away
And comes back when it wants, in its time
I really like the hard poem
Worked, scrawled, sweaty
I like the rich, rare and missing rhyme
Until it surrenders
Compassionate for my affliction
I like the work in construction
Of the victory won and deserved
Of the boiling, mad mind
Maybe I’m not a poet
Just a restless soul
Who always carries a pencil in the hand
And a poem in the heart.