How do you write a poem?
she asked.
It’s like going broke,
I replied—
gradually, them
suddenly.*
Which makes sense,
almost,
at least in certain stories.
Maybe not so much
in poems.
I have had some
that came fast,
almost violently so.
And others
labored over
like childbirth.
But only rarely
is there a spate of hard work,
crushing effort,
and then a sudden rush,
like an old toothpaste tube
that’s stopped up
so that you push
hard,
only to have it all
come out at once.
Words splattered
upon the page,
and no way in hell
they’re going back
in the tube.
*Apologies to Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises