I can be poetic in the morning,
by moonlight, alone in a clean house,
beside a flowerbed, at a local cafe,
after a bike ride in autumn,
a walk through freshly fallen snow,
while holding a sleeping child,
through tears, to Mozart, Simon and Garfunkel,
silence.
I can write a poem (almost) any time,
(it’s what I do) but not now,
over a late dinner, behind drawn curtains,
accompanied by the chaotic noise
of a Lego movie masterpiece,
and an inner world of jumpy thoughts.
But I said I would.
Happy seventh day of National Poetry Month.