the titles
lay about,
filed in no order,
some a mere notion,
some a finished few,
most a line or two

that

ask fervently for
birth, commencement,
not understanding
that finished,
need not mean ripened,
ready for release, consumption

some indeed,
awful layabouts
in no hurry
to complete their
appointed rounds,
or make their
unique composed sounds
spoke out loud

content to be,
yet-to-be
but already
wanting the entitlements
of being
just a title entitled,
yet even without shape,
content to be
content-less,
poem teenagers, I guess,
they want it all

all awaiting wondering

they understand how humans are born
but see no parallel to gestation literate

they see
infiltration, fertilization, conception,
automated, tracked and formulaic

the process similar,
but the exact moment of birth
knows no schedule,
some burst, some dormant,
aging beyond aged,
struggling to believe that
those who wait also serve

if you were to sit beside
this troubled man,
whose clouds need poking by,
perhaps,
your fresh fingers
could rocket them into
partum warmth fluid bathed,
then they would belong
to you
for you
were the trigger,
that fired them into existence