I will write a poem
if it kills me.
Even if the line
breaks me.
Even if love
counts its ways.
Even when a
lesser path emerges.
Even if I lie
etherized on a table.
Even if roses are red,
with each petal a cliché.
Even if to be or not to be
isn’t the question.
Even if you tread
softly on my dreams.
Even if there’s water
everywhere but no drop.
Even if I wander,
lonely as a cloud.
Even if no word
rhymes or I
double over in
entendre,
this is a poem,
and I live on.
Settle down Monday,
don’t push or crowd
or cut in line.
Be patient
while I brush up
before your sun cups
me round and round.
I’ll tie my shoes later
after coffee spoons
have measured me.
Monday, a click track
of existence, set
a pace down
between these lungs.
I will breathe a grace,
give thanks,
and skip
a beat or three.
I dare you…
Read a poem today. It doesn’t have to be T.S. Elliot’s Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, but it’s not a bad place to land on a Monday.
Gerald the Writer 