When I write prose
words gush forth
ever-flowing.
Turn the tap
et voilà!
torrents of trivia
waterfalls of words
streams of consciousness.

Poetry comes
(if at all)
from a faulty faucet,
with a leak so slow
no one has bothered
to replace it–
yet.
Drip…
drip…
drip…
blink and you miss it.
A single drop;
useless.
The poet must cup her hands
just so
and catch what comes,
when it comes,
and hope it doesn’t evaporate
into thin air.

April 22, 2012