or cut bait

If you intend to fish for poetry,

you should get up pretty early

and stay out quite late.

A nap anytime almost never hurts.

Patience is important:

a walk can be too fast,

though it is rarely –

almost never – too slow.

But poetry streaks

at the speed of light

and yet it lurks just as well

in the stone cold stillness.

Once a poem slipped through

my dripping fingers

because I had left

my paper and pen at home

and there were unpatched holes

in my net.

I’ve probably jinxed myself

by saying too much,

but it’s not a matter of superstition.

And luck isn’t merely

a matter of luck,

but it’s hard to know in advance

which effort will be worth the time.

The question is something to think about

when you have nothing better to do.

You could – I suppose – say that about poetry.

often itself a kind of question,

but that would likely be a waste of words.

Poetry might be a will o’ the wisp;

it might be granite.

Poetry might be pink socks;

it might be galoshes.

But who wears galoshes

these days?

I’ll say this –

though it goes without saying -

that poetry is not about the words,

but it is entirely about the words.

If there is a melody or a tune,

it must be in your head –

or maybe an errant tuba

or something.

Maybe it’s the crescendo

or diminuendo in the cracks

on the concrete sidewalk.

Flip a coin

and watch it roll

into the storm drain

that flows to the river.

Poetry waits.

You can fish –

or cut bait.