A Poem Letter by Michael Estabrook
But seriously, do I have to write a poem every time
there’s a space in my day: at the doctor’s office, the airport, the DMV,
during the kids’ basketball practice, soccer and softball.
Pull out my notebook, push on my glasses, click my pen into action.
(I’m old-fashioned, no fancy-schmancy electronic recording gadgetry for me.)
No doubt the literary world will be fine
if I simply sit and do nothing other than stare into the space around me.
But the Muse, it’s her fault I tell you, she’s always crowding around me
sticking her nose in my business, nudging me hissing in my ear:
“Come on man move it I got things to say.”