Updated: Nov 2, 2020
I go walking sometimes with a poem in my pocket.
I like to think I’ll work on it later
and sometimes, I do;
but usually I forget,
until I’m in those warm diners with big windows,
watching the blue morning fade away.
Watching the night owls drift home to roost.
Watching the world of night rest;
the world of light prepare for the day to come.
The early bird fixes his tie,
and we are all alone together in that blue morning.
When it’s lonesome and quiet,
I can think.
I think about everything,
birds and blue mornings,
until I’m sick.
And when I’m good and sick I know I’m ready;
ready for that poem that waits,
crinkled in my pocket.