The course of a quiet afternoon in the life of a solitary poet in search of the perfect poem (a poem)


I’m going to sit here out on the deck for a while
feeling the sunlight on my face
and listening to the waters of the creek rush past

Bells will mark the hour a few minutes early
in all their pre-recorded splendor
at which time I will look at the clock to complete the math in my head

Every so often, one of the cats will venture outside
take a couple of turns around the deck
then go back inside as though she’s seen it all before

From somewhere up in the trees that line the creek
a bird will whistle in a dull monotone
I’ll look around but not find it, then go back to what I was doing

The shadow of the pen on the paper will grow longer and thicker
as I move it steadily across the once-blank page
and I’ll suppress the urge to make a penis joke

Since it is just barely March, it will get colder and colder outside
as the sun shuffles off to the west, beyond my view
so I will go inside, close the door, and turn up the heat

At last, I will sit at my desk and type in these words
while deciding whether or not to share them
and wait patiently to see whether anyone out there likes the poem

(5 March 2015)