Truculent Ode to Poetry

You storm in
at the most inopportune time,
like when company’s coming
and the house needs cleaned
or when the presentation at work
looms large upon the horizon,
and in I walk into my office,
open the computer,
and there you are,
squatting like a protester
dressed in red in the snow
with something that must be heard
because you’re not moving 
until it is.
 
It is annoying, all this poetry.
It won’t let me sleep
until I’ve written each word down,
wrestling like Jacob in dead of night
only to find myself
limping toward dawn.
I’m tired of verbose ambushes
with exciting new ideas 
that too often go awry
like the perfect Scrabble word
mixed among the tiles 
if only the right ones can be drawn
but seldom are,
despite my planned hope.
 
It’s like living with someone
who’s bipolar, bouncing words about
like Sherlock Holmes on speed.
I can’t keep up with so much brilliance,
though I try to suss it out like Watson
and get it all down as a public service.
You run ahead, and I chase,
only to race in and 
find you suddenly slouched
silent and sullen on the couch
watching Law and Order reruns
and getting cheese doodle dust
all over the cream upholstery
of what’s left of my mind. 
 
Sometimes I’d like to tell you 
to shove off, leave me alone, 
but truth is, I enjoy the games afoot,
of hide and seek and chase
and Scrabble and wrestling
that leave me so breathless with beauty
amid dirty dishes and unfinished reports
that I don’t care when you’re here,
though in the back of my mind
I know you’ll soon
blow out the way you came
and leave me as a doldrums sail
devoid and drooping
alone. 

               ©Tess Lockhart, all rights reserved.  May, 2018.