THE POETRY CAT

Sometimes the poem
doesn’t want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
and lurks among slugs,
roots, and spiders’ eyes—
left so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

 

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
afraid of being possessed,
feeling too much,
losing his essential
loneliness—
which he calls
freedom.

 

. . .

 

Sometimes the poem
can’t requite
the poet’s passion.

 

The poem is a dance
between poet and poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won’t dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet—
iambs, trochees—

 

out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

 

If the poem won’t come,
I say: Sneak up on it.
Pretend you don’t care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda, Sappho,

 

essential Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

 

. . .

 

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

 

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
for love
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

 

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

 

As you rock
over the damp, sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.