~for R.A.~

“ I don't think I could write a poem if my life depended on it”

pardon me, Madame,
past is prologue,
waiting is just delay,
a prolonging,
a satisfaction delayed,

so
take the dog for a walk,
observing his rambunctious
wanderings,
compare and contrast
your and our own
owned
wanderings
perhaps,
the parallels
will see a vision,
even a parable?

you’ll be feeling that
tugging pull,
a leashed excuse pulling
you own hands and head
to have a quiet meeting,
in front of a blank,
blue line ruled
clean sheet

just cause that
nagging, won’t ,
non stop
heart beating
rhythmically
is questioning,
then a funky
annoying
voice
assumes control
and your hand moves,
with no control,
and when all is said,
it is done.