Sometimes a poem will grab you
by the arm and tug you into a dingy doorway,
or whisper in your ear about the strangest things,
or, smiling, sink gleaming fangs into your throat.

And while you’re walking in a barren landscape,
sometimes a poem will idle up next to you,
match your step and begin
talking softly or humming.

Sometimes a poem lies
incomplete and unfulfilled
in poetic purgatory.
Waiting for the coup de grace.

Sometimes a poem cannot be satisfied
until it sucks the marrow from your bones,
and leaves you gasping with
your thesaurus unzipped.

©Joel Fallon, date unknown
All rights reserved

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