There’s a theory
That anyone can write a poem.
Words will spill, and rhymes will trill
And rhythms cascade in time.
And yet I can claim none of these rhymes
As mine.

There’s an assumption
That a writer can turn it on.
Pick and choose which words they’ll use
And what order they’ll be written in.
But I have no such luck
With my poems.

When I write a poem
It splutters and chokes out of my pen.
It begins and stops, and begins again. And then –
If I like it –
I might choose not to throw it
In the bin.