Poeting is hard.
The Secret Lives of Poets
You wait for moments like this—
when the children are fussy
and the car won’t start,
changing its mind with the turn of a key.
Could it be the battery,
the inadequate heart that won’t start?
Or is it the corroded connections
tired of the stress of making ends meet?
And you, mechanically inclined as a wisk,
are stranded at the grocery store parking lot,
embarrassed by this sudden vulnerability.
Your eyes fill up by the quart.
Both kids look to you as if to say,
how are you going to fix this?
They don’t understand that
you cannot chose the days you are given
when you pull out of the driveway
to the next quiet disaster, all your hopes
strapped to the back seat. It’s just you
armed with a pen, the only tool you know how to use.