cold passion-read once and throw away

never at a loss for
paper
ink
words
I am a full time poet
and a part time human being

when I am taunted
by a line
not yet surrendered
to solid form
I nod distracted
gaze blank
as friend or husband or child
struggles for my attention

other writers understand this look
my focus past their left earlobe
my head bobbling
and they back away
while I race to scribble
that which will surely
escape
if not captured
in the moment

I try sometimes
to commit myself
to those around me
while poems
wash through my brain
with the persistence of the tides
but I usually wind up
asking a stupid question
like
How would you spell BOBBLING?
and they know I am gone again
exploring
my own inner landscape

so often as I snap to
I must apologize

I'm sorry...
What did you just say?
I was writing
when you began talking
and I just don't
understand
this conversation

as a peace offering
I read them
my new poem

You'll be the first to hear it...
It's been in my head
for a long time
mucking around
and now
it's completely congealed
and ready
for public display

this is their chance
to get even
and I often
am bombarded
with questions
confused looks
or worst of all
when I'm finished

the Ubiquitous

...That's very nice...