Truculent Ode to Poetry

You storm in

at the most inopportune time,

like when company’s coming

and the house needs cleaned

or when the presentation at work

looms large upon the horizon,

and in I walk into my office,

open the computer,

and there you are,

squatting like a protester

dressed in red in the snow

with something that must be heard

because you’re not moving 

until it is.

It is annoying, all this poetry.

It won’t let me sleep

until I’ve written each word down,

wrestling like Jacob in dead of night

only to find myself

limping toward dawn.

I’m tired of verbose ambushes

with exciting new ideas 

that too often go awry

like the perfect Scrabble word

mixed among the tiles 

if only the right ones can be drawn

but seldom are,

despite my planned hope.

It’s like living with someone

who’s bipolar, bouncing words about

like Sherlock Holmes on speed.

I can’t keep up with so much brilliance,

though I try to suss it out like Watson

and get it all down as a public service.

You run ahead, and I chase,

only to race in and 

find you suddenly slouched

silent and sullen on the couch

watching Law and Order reruns

and getting cheese doodle dust

all over the cream upholstery

of what’s left of my mind. 

Sometimes I’d like to tell you 

to shove off, leave me alone, 

but truth is, I enjoy the games afoot,

of hide and seek and chase

and Scrabble and wrestling

that leave me so breathless with beauty

amid dirty dishes and unfinished reports

that I don’t care when you’re here,

though in the back of my mind

I know you’ll soon

blow out the way you came

and leave me as a doldrums sail

devoid and drooping

in prose alone.