17 April 2010
by Julie Bloss Kelsey
I can’t babysit them like I used to,
there’s no time to set them down gently.
When I get interrupted, as I so often do,
my poems don’t queue neatly,
like patrons at the post office.
Rather, they are a raucous crowd:
unruly soccer fans, kicking,
clawing, screaming at one another.
They clamor for my attention,
desperate to be noticed.
I hear them strangling now
as these words congeal on the page,
stagnant as a blood clot.
Scabbing over, they will harden;
the leftovers waiting to be picked off,
waiting for their reprieve.
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National Poetry Month
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