the poetry left

The poetry left

and took with it so much joy.

Rain became an inconvenience,

sunset just a time of day,

long walks just trips from A to B,

the sea nothing but… well,

the sea.

The poetry left,

and it slammed the door shut.

I spend my nights waiting

by the silent phone

hoping poetry will ring

and beg me to come home.

I read a few more classics,

I watched a dozen movies,

I met a hundred strangers

but none of them

were poetry.

I worked for days

and days

and days

and days

but none of the work

was poetry, either.

So now, like a lost dog searching for home,

like little Hachi in that Richard Gere disaster,

I sit and wait for poetry to return home

to the point that I write about missing it

and that, itself, becomes the poem.